Before the Bridges Fell #20: Villa by David L O’Nan – poetry

first published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal

Villa

It was a purple evening on Villa.
The gangs are all silent for once.
A magnificent explosion of deployment of soldiers.
Moneybags scattered over the c-shaped moon.

I was washed in with the chameleons,
When the forecast spoke nothing of rain.
Little limp locomotives, sad, old and beat up.
Our stripes have slipped off our chest.

Living with sticks on this dynamite fix.
On a night when the factories shut down.
Damp air can choke you when the smoke lives in your lungs.
And all though they have fallen, they took a part of your fame
With their grind to salt.

You could start freezing if the fence is bending.
It is absurd you could feel the warmth of strays.
Celebrate, without fear of the creeping
The nails and hammers, that paddles down your door.

In a blur, in an express, in a dim blinding mess.
The brazen is ripped off from their claws.
Suck in the bullets, ooze out the bloodshed.
And wish you were a little more like a worshiped holy man.

Cross over towards Taylor Avenue and enter the violent yellow –
Into dark green, sow in the weaving of the oppressed widows.
With the clouds of depression, and wish you were a crib and not 
living in the halls with these rusting sickle blades.

Shrink from bravery back to being juvenile.
Casting shadows of screams, and the splitting of the hourglass.
Removed from the race, in the suicidal shaking in mass.
You watched as the moon went from ecstasy to a coward.

It was a purple evening on Villa.
The street was like an arctic tundra.
Our feet stuck to asphalt.
Frozen scarecrows and dead eyed, the ravens litter the Earth.
Watching the traffic move into the stars.

And we faint into our escape.
Jumping the bullets like a criss-cross game at an 
afternoon recess.

The light will always turn dark, and the trees faux shaped.
Removed from family, well that family was just consumption
Of the abuse.  Riding the waves of a city’s surge in a monsoon
of lavender and blues and into the curves that try to wash us away
into the grates. 

We will not drain away. Forget this city.  Burn Villa to the grave.
And leave me a saint, although my mind is in the prison.

Before the Bridges Fell #19 : Circles in the Puddles for Jehovah by David L O’Nan – Poetry

Before the Bridges Fell #18: Rumors of Candles by David L O’Nan – poetry

Before the Bridges Fell #17 : By Our Well by David L O’Nan – poetry


Interview with EIC David L O’Nan with Anastasia Abboud on Grains of Sand : About how I write, my weird thoughts and a few of my revised Cohen Avalanches in Poetry Poems.


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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