Writing, Poetry, Short Stories, Reviews, Art Contests
Several Poems by David L O’Nan including “Wrestling the Air” “the Withering Alice” “Broken Ballets in Haunting Gardens” & more
Wrestling the Air
In the pit of my stomach
The devil lives in there
with a barbiturate honor system
A bipolar at bed-rest
the schism of our chords.
I am the constant fire
An arson in my heart
A glowing through my skin
Pale hands and a drowning glow to my face
We all fall like feathers, and
lead to a poisonous bite.
Phantoms in flames
an exaggerated fright,
Respect when feared
bricked out the wind to keep me from spreading.
Like the churning magma under all our feet
During neurosis, we shake these windows
From glass down to sugar
these infections run deep
The spells of a marginal magician.
Now, we all are burning the flea circus
and watching them scream
Watch them Wrestle the air,
and just try to clip the wings of the disease.
The Withering Alice
There is the ancient tale that withers,
like that suspended rope.
From the infinite rainstorm above
tapping tiny poisons on the rooftops,
Scratching at the walls,
When the search for the handsome and kind -
loses its adhesive grip.
In Alice's vision,
The clouds are thundering
Digested by the mud
The spiritual daughter to the grim night.
To the freeze, she is the sting
The stinging through the chest
That rope swings and continues to break
the skeletons stick to her dark escape
We are chanting for her victory
We are trying to repair the rope,
We are screaming at the beast, and
daring the temptation to a shame.
We long to watch her dance for the mirror again
We'd love for her to be free
Please not like this,
A hissing presence fades through her skin, and
the sour taste of hell tries to intervene.
Like a cancer, the ropes begin to mutate
and spreads across the room.
In her eyes,
we try to conjure out the illness
In her eyes,
we glance at the knot's reflection
In her eyes,
we see the flesh and bones of the withering Alice.
Touch her hand softly and see
If the grip still has the power of
The power of the disease.
Died Inside of a Liquor Store
Your husbands, just like your father
Both with failed livers
Died inside of the liquor store
Staring into Jim Beam's eyes as they slid -
face-first to the concrete floor.
In a quizzical call to heaven
the pathetic attempts to scrape them off the floors -
like fried eggs from a skillet
The whole room is filling with vertigo vapors
And the light turns to black
and the bottles clank together
like a beast is shaking the store from the ground
these fragile trembling hands
and the nail hammered through them
We watched their souls
and we revisit them -
in our recordings of the 1970's footage,
that plays skips and static in our brains
those grainy faced robbers in Christmas Morning snow.
Ripping at the cartoon wrapping paper
the presents for you, the ugly clown banks
The presents for them, the shiny new bottles.
The sunshine melts around the corners of curtains,
I feel every bit of a fuzzy shoegaze guitar song.
Malaise my head to calmness.
You are already out there flirting with 4 leaf clovers,
I am here repurposing poisons to bring me to surrender
to a disease, to the machetes, to my heart
to resurrect back to a full puzzle.
Whispering in all the burns,
and smoothing out the scars
I feel that the morning is cluttered
and the sickness is the ugliest
When you put on the makeup,
in that compact mirror.
And our day begins with a damp searching inside.
Broken Ballets in Haunting Gardens
If my feet fail to move
when debris is flying
and my balance is no longer smooth
I'm feverish from the last days of Cumae.
Separation from the vain,
the cult of power becomes recessive
this will not stop the birds in flight
Over the vines of my haunting gardens.
Seeds begin sinking,
rain replenishing only roots of trees
weeds become infections
and I am those falling mountains,
that erect this peaceful town.
The winds begin howling
Quiet, fingers to mouth
and then the howling of a dying anger
My blue skies are slowly progressing diseases
Hopeless like my Mother's eyes.
Exaggerated loves become destructive
blood is weeping in my skin
as it all begins in a childhood fading
even now i'm gray
splitting walls inside my head
words like ballets can be.
What always will stand in the fogging,
leads us as our crutches
The dominance of light
and the destructive swarm of all the clouding.
Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack Pt 1: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan
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 firstname.lastname@example.org.
Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof