5 Poems from David L O’Nan : “I Write Ballerina Poetry for the Dead to Dance to””…And I Will Burn Down the New Circus””My Webs Don’t Move in the Wind”, “In Your Last Photo” & “A Hypothermic Dragnet”

Moon, Moon Addicted, Universe, Ballerina

I Write Ballerina Poetry For the Dead to Dance To

It was a bleeding image from an old film
You are playing piano for the dead
and they all dance across the wooden floor,
the living room with the tiny curio cabinets

There are men who look like John Wayne on the whiskey bottles
broken barstools, this old house is blind
and shook off the dreams that spark in the cracks of the fault lines.
Women with hair buns come in from the city avenue,
to begin cooking and sweeping 
for old Praise Jesus parodies

Those men spend more time in private bars,
than they spend with the family
wearing a cross all the while.
With Alfred Hitchcock stomachs overlapping their belts.

The air tastes like cinnamon
the ballet feels like a rusting car brake,
the piano begins to sound as if it were in a crowded Greyhound bus,
all of the Winter skies crash into this slick brick blind-spot
none of the dancers are diamonds,

only chipped away spikes that gurgle in the rough
and that applause,


As the chimney suctions in the dead with the smoke.

...And I Will Burn Down the New Circus

We are given mystery and surprise as soon as the infant's eyes "see or feel"

As scrawny as the sky may be,
or as fully as its belly of grey hovers over us,
we become weightless pebbles,
like ants stuck in the sand on this Universal birth.

Evolving Constables, dictatorships, mind control, slavery, to us
the baby, the humanity, the humble, the wise candlewick lit -
in the clouds,
ready to light a new birth to a new regime.

The same, old regime?

In the sand is the answers

Do we dig?

Afraid of finding more of our unspoken sins.
Illuminate circus of wonders with crackling whips,
and loud voices begging for attention to their destruction,
and let them Vilify,
for they are the ringmaster,
and they need such a lush red coat.

In the sand is the answer,
to the fossils of many sacred bubbles.
they burst,
from the ocean waves.

Across these clouds,
the angels once in tears
fanning in new funerals,
sending out new invitations.
Statues and monuments dreamt up the old circus
Falling angels in Rolls-Royces created the new circus.
While the old circus     crumbled,

I say we burn down the new circus,
scrape away the ashes
cascade in a wash of blues
Chroma in the pigmentations of all that is blue,
is pure
drain all the pain from the diseases,
that turned us into flightless birds.
We can coalesce as humanity again.
And we feed these devils to the termites,
that eats away at the wooden hearts of the ringmasters.

Our circus isn't a circus at all.
It is a parade, for everyone
It shall be a sharing,
a puncturing of the death toll.
We will become the fuel for this Earth.

And we will no longer be weightless,

The Earth shall be full of our fruits and thoughts.
...and not have to live scraped off into the gutters of the galaxy.

My Webs Don't Move in the Wind

If I could live in my shed
and think about my younger years
I just want to ride my bicycle
covered in webs and Argiope spiders.

I feel rotten like the wood
in my hideaway brain,
I drink the rust from the water pipes.

And I still wail for you,

In the cold night
I gravitate to a silk mesh
and bend,
bend as well as breaking legs let you.

I will always be venomous
and looked away from
give me that hideous stare
and you give my flowers to the Monarch Westerlies,
to travel where they will, and live
in the Garden of Giverny, and I
will remain tangled in webs.

In Your Last Photo

Ever since the glass broke my windshield
and I left my body in the gusting northwinds,
I made a return back to my soul
with 3 bounces of black pavement
I felt recycled with familiar blood, and streaks
of yellow car paint mingled with,
the gravel that wedged in with the epidermis.

I began to meet the doppelgangers of self,
through the month of a mutation,
a medical penitentiary,
every time they moved so gracefully.

They were me at 3
Me at 14, 23, and 30
and a fading crib in the corner of an infancy memory.

Got out!
had to move away!
from the Delaware blizzards
my lovely wife,
in brown skin and dress of lace
would take the old me,
all of the useless possessions
and sell them to the curmudgeons of ridicule.

The poison, sticky with lies on their lips
with his old possessions
but to get out!
That is the way
The Swaying doppelgangers of self,
lead the way
to the seas that sound of cellos
break down into my sternum,
and let my insides dance.

When I bathe in the saltwater beach
I harvest in the beauty of poetry
in the death of mobility and strength,
the dissections of sensation,
the ears can still hear the starlight play the mandolin.

You can still feel the warmth of a bosom to your back,
as she tries to hold you,
to wait longer as the harps draw closer
the vacuums of angels fly down to present me towards heaven,
to feed the skies spoonfuls of my spirit
as the wind flows through my toenails to the tip of my skull,
those dancing memories live now as saints on the beach.

To protect the loves and comfort hearts with blankets of sanity.

In a musical concerto.

A Hypothermic Dragnet


I'm here in a choke of wind
There are laughs in the murder.

We are born to escape
with the heat of our blood
and the chipping of our frozen bones.

Stuck here in,

a mass of tundra eats at
our defective skin.

Where we dreamt of London

and now this

Needles replace my entirety

We were handed the chilling grip of death

I've been broken down, tangled up 
fed to the bottom of the ice. 

Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack Pt 1: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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