3 poems by David L O’Nan : “Come Possess Me in the Rain” “Sleight of Hand” “In the Palms of Schizophrenia”

Come Possess Me in the Rain

The conduits all say that I invented myth
And magic all in one breath.
There is a mist in the cold air
On a Greenwich Village Halloween night
I can not feel the electricity
Only the forceful druids, and the chanting wish of death

They hold me up and say
Come Possess me in the rain
Licks the cold steel to my skull
Possess me, with me
Real and muted by the shame
In an execution style parade
What is the impression of a concrete stain?

They are practicing Shakespeare
They are faux Warholas and Bohemians in sunglasses
Without a notion of care

And I’m in this shadow that you feel at the River
Cold to the touch, blood like paste
The arrows kill the stars in the nuclear waste
In the air, decaying the ground

Now I’m expected to love all
As I’m pierced to these skyscrapers
Bound and bullied
My hands shaking off frost
It takes every breath in my lungs to
Release all my cowardice and all the vapors

Like this militant view of my skewering
They drop me off like unused flesh
Love was only the invention
Off the roots of an untimely reptilian dream
And hate grew in the garden
And shook the city lights to the seas
There isn’t a Picasso left

Digging up from the cracks
I crawl up through Cherry Lane
And I watch all the faints
And my nerves constantly dance an alarm
I am rushed in my steps
I am hushed in the slivers of my brain

In my mind that never sleeps
In my possession they fed off for years
I can only find truth and humanity
And live like I’m the Palomino
Dodging in and out of the hustling of fear

Sleight of Hand

My blood is an old soul
That should be pumping through a robotic poet from classic times
If I’m breathing, you will hear me
When I’m not, you may hear me more
How else can you see these supposed fast-moving clouds dream –
As slow motion tantras through a heartless sky?
This current world is too loud for me,
Yet it isn’t nearly loud enough
The art is secluded
The arteries are clogged,
Filled with supernovas and suffering
And they call this a sleight of hand


In The Palms of Schizophrenia

(first published in 3 Moon Publishing)

I’m a runaway from
The colours of my aura
Slithering like worms across the cracks of sidewalks

My palms have lines that are geometrically wrong,
Where do the nails go?
When they capture me
To evict me, to a death.

When they mark me like all of Christianity,
Rising above the rest.
I live with nature, everchanging repetition.
No one else hears,
My cries in the night
Like wolves, like all of my fears

How are screams so fluent?
In an echo, a breath
In Convulsion, still so fluent?
Everyone has deep eyes
Congruent to my ruin.

I remember love
And the mystery of bells
The ringing of heartaches
And the burning of hell

Inside my palms
I always know my passions
Only I, and my ghosts of mind can imagine.
And in this world

Even levitation leads to a drowning.

feature photo by Janine Robinson (unsplash)

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios: 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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