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A Quicksilver Trilling by David L O’Nan : Poetry & Writing style lyrics inspired by Dylan
Once upon a time we met the platinum blonde
- with a letter in hand and a Loro Piana Handbag.
She was quiet and frantic at the same time (the obstacles of running from beautiful to damnit!)
You popped bubbles in the hot flames,
in flamenco streets with bleeding trains that lead you
from the whistles to the cheating rainfalls.
Now, she’s as quiet the storm swept flower.
Now, she’s an atomic bomb in my heart of desire.
She’s as damaged as the ignorant meal to the fiery belly of a carnivore.
"Meeting the vagrants are as easy as meeting you" she’d laugh to herself.
Maybe, she’s just a little deaf when this city shakes in a quicksilver trilling.
A little blind when the joy with from a celebration to a thronging.
So you missed the thrills of the small crowd now.
That city took your bravery and your crown.
It’s hard to be superficial in your walk.
The thrills of a million helicopters circling down.
Your heartbeats a quilted bundle of wires.
In the Hollywood hideaways the public does watch.
Hurry up to snap a picture of her durable nucleus falling apart.
Behind the bars, to the many
alcohols and elixirs falling straight down the cold rocks.
Her beautiful monuments show some cracks
and the drinking of the sweet fruit tree has become a little thick in the dust cloud social ball.
Maybe she’s just a little deaf when this city shakes in a quicksilver trilling.
Maybe she’s a little thirsty when the water is sealed from the dams to a willing thirst.
This blessing is just a disguised curse when she’s dressed up for another Judy Garland downward spiral.
I’m starting to rethink this shadow looking at his shoes, playing little Mr. Socialite wearing a poor man’s Bruno Maglis blues.
I’m standing here holding your golden cup.
The feathers of your golden goose,
and a shriveled-up ticket to the sacrifices you make at Tiffanys.
My culture lies behind the ropes holding the inside of my head.
To play lover and not to play dead.
So you can play elegant and hip for the artsy coffeeshops.
They can spell your name in the drink and your heart melts, and you finally feel like a somebody.
So you tip those baristas and joke about the rats.
They don’t know art, don’t have MFA’s and haven’t been bought their gardens to thrive.
I just watch the fakeness leave your timid hazel eyes. And you try to just to the restroom and cry, I hear you in there weeping like a saturnine coyote.
There are a couple of genuine fools, walking around pretending to be the rules of cool.
They folded under the pressures of rebellion, but they are beginning to wonder my darling.
They are wondering exactly how many canvases you have put your brush to. Since you tell them all
you’re so smart and like a branch.
I’m just this poetic clown stuck with oversized t-shirts and the smile of
a stripped screw.
Don’t worry he’ll pay for this free meal at this simpering Italian Restaurant. Then he’ll
be on his way back to the job of being a wonderful muse when the art professors aren’t calling you.
Never to share a true linen of a sunrise together. Tell me exactly what art is when you don’t know the
art that is natural weather.
Oh, maybe she’s a little deaf when the city shakes and is shrilling. A little quicksilver trilling.
The sunrise is a little overbearing.
Can’t see the canvas from the golden glare that I’m wearing.
Operation, a colorful tornado on a disco floor. Weak legs are dancing.
Drunk and the quick pills are mixing. And you’re a drunk and grinding against pistons of strangers
trying to keep from pissing.
They want to call you up for a night of glistening, and introduce you
to a hypodermic waterbed.
You forgot me behind the trees. A little dirty when you have to sit and
plead. You have nothing you really need, but everything you want is in the halos of that river.
Well, the birds wake up a little earlier than you. And they seem sick without the worms to chew.
There isn’t a masterpiece for them to view. You went right into the darkness with your colors and your
strength. Frail bones fail frail forests. Simple supernatural spells bring crumbles to a magic mountain,
the journeys are hard to walk when the valleys and the lakes are droughts and scrawny to swim in.
Oh, maybe she’s a little deaf when the animals stopped howling.
The wind is full of heat and rain is even melting. Around the curves the body is sealing.
The city is shaking to a quicksilver trilling.
From the windows, we used to see the clarity of the glass. Now it’s a little oily and overcast.
It’s a holocaust, razor sharp raindrops with teeth that bite, just like a brand-new disease.
The queen must hide from the flee. Our humanity isn’t built anymore on heartbeats. Sometimes
humanity is built from cardboard signs. Hold a little higher and ask for a prayer. Ask for a shave of cool air to save you from a Tinseltown cataclysm.
So what does the wonder girl do, when she goes from the pretender to blue to the shrew?
Does she realize her hair wasn’t always so cute? Does she realize the geniuses are all crooks?
Does she feel the jazzy palm trees have always been a little plastic and fake?
Much like the hypnotized starlets in the platinum blonde deconstruction game.
Oh, maybe she’s a little deaf from the chess game that keeps yelling checkmate!
Maybe she’s been blinded by the hysterical cut-throat authority waifs. Maybe she’s just part
of this jealousy,
vanish haze they thrown on you to make you a product.
A little pill sick when the city keeps shaking tiny slits of cracks in this quicksilver trilling.
Now, she’s as naked as a blurry mirror. Now she’s feeling as pitiful as a stuttering preacher.
Now her art is less of a picture that hangs above bountiful nouveau vanity mirrors.
Her art is the magnetism that pulls the moon through her evening veins.
Her art is when the clouds move in and pulls the curtains of stars over her delicate frame.
Maybe she grew tired of her ears constantly ringing. Loud masochisms and feminine leeches
luring and lingering. A city shook to pieces in a quicksilver trilling.
*a version of this poem appears in the Lothlorien Poetry Journal from Strider Marcus Jones*
Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.Hard Rain Poetry: Forever Dylan Anthology available today!Available Now: Before I Turn Into Gold Inspired by Leonard Cohen Anthology by David L O’Nan & Contributors w/art by Geoffrey WrenBare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle
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 email@example.com.
Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof