Michael Phelan O'Toole

MEDIAted Catharsis From A Multi-Faceted Artist



POEM: “Cali 4 Eye” – 4/14/2014

I came out of ovaries and since had a hard life
Like my eggs over easy.
Have it go on long if you like
You don’t need to please me.

Became an icon of a creative need to bleed –
decided to put a stop to it before I passed out.
Had to concede
to the ink in my veins.
A primal fear-instinct seeped into my brains.

The missing link was never clicked.
If I’m gonna trip, it may as well be on your lips.
If I’m gonna frequently fall, it may as well be in love.

Punk rock has been speaking to me –
the lonely, laughing boy –
but I hope it can manifest itself
into a woman.
Maybe she’ll have to be from the bars –
I don’t care,
as long as she can smear her genetic makeup into my scars.

Without internal drive, does it matter if we have ambition to drive cars?
Does it matter how we outside dress,
if inside we’re so depressed?
I confess – I feel fine.
Came here to have my eyes open, not keep blind
(To) have someone tie me up, so I can struggle, and unwind.





POEM: “Blood, Read” – 3/7/2012 by Michael Phelan O’Toole (DRAFT)

I decaffienated all of my hatred

now there’s no high to slitting a low vein;

a metaphor for uncontrolled words on paper.
Call it “Hate read.”
“Why, why, why?”
The pain is linked, like a chain.
I kept pulling at my t-shirt thread…
Bleeding from the eye of a hurricane,
I cauterizred the wounds,
by pursuing the good news of
dispensing with the old;
daze covered in mold.
It’s all relative how many relatives’ blood cells run cold.
You wouldn’t believe what I was told…
With this 20-something teen angst, I say thanks.
The nerve of me for having a nervous system in a suicidal town.
A breakdown into the pieces of me.
A puzzle cut into the shape of anxiety,
screaming for justice like Van Gogh.
A cinematic chase up the steeple.
I wish they would blow, half of these people.
On the skin, this raw, sick look,
orphaned and in pursuit of creative flight,
like a comic book…
In darkness dwells the light of my writers lamp.
An approved moral code stamped on my spine,
a scar that marks a line of time.
Lines of demarkation are carved on Cloud 9.
A mental vacation. 
I kick the hornet’s nest and the hive mind.
Intelligence that justifys life itself.
Why are we here if not to beat ignorance with Orion’s belt?
A horror-punk’ed up tribute to what it was I once felt.
A blank slate,
thick to penetrate your eyes and ears!
Decapitate doubts and fears.
This is blood read –
pierce a hole with pen, and pull the thought right out of my head,
placed on the page.
Pace the rage.
Zen masterbation instead of being cuffed to a tramp
All about concentration, in this depraved camp.
Breaking my own bones that cause the cramp.
A paralyzed man who seeks to throw off his clan like a coat
so he can dance, dance, dance! 
That’s all she wrote.



All written content © 2012, Michael Phelan O’Toole, All rights reserved.



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