“Cursed Houses” Part 2 Poetry Showcase from David L O’Nan

Living like a PTSD Scandal in Newport

Well, it must have been a break in the clouds when Dylan plugged in.
Well, your day must have been ruined when Maggie’s Farm was brewing.
Well, you could have got over it and jumped from your sunshine window but didn’t.
When civil rights leaders were being shot, 
you sung about it but didn’t really change it.
Changing things for the better, 
or did you really just want to stay stagnate.
As Kennedys came and Kennedy’s went, Malcolm X and MLK, John Lennon.  The assassins kept bidding.

Well, now today we have parasitic new kids with assault weapons and wanting quick copycat fame.
Well, we got old men in diapers waving the death of their old glory flag. All torn and weathered.
They are screaming until tears, but not for lost lives.  
Seeming more like a revival of a Third Reich.
They want to keep watching the court dramas of pirates and glamorizing mamas on their flashing 
screens in front of them.
July 24, 1965, January 6, 2021  Some of them can’t figure out which one was worse than the other.

Well, have you ever met George Floyd, Daunte Wright, Breonna Taylor or even Aura Rosser?
Well, probably not…maybe not but you’ve met the abuse of your neighbors.
You’ve met the stalker’s eyes, the wicked smiles with rebel flags. Pretending it’s about pride.
You’ve seen the whimsy stickers, 
the scare tactic flags daring people not to cross them.
Threaten us with the spells of evil in yellow and black and green, 
The Gadsden Flag comes
 flying 100 mph in some aggressive move-while in a truck to cause 100 collisions.
and they say they know God better than you.

Well, too much bleach drank in the mansions and the motorcycle villages by the stained trailer.
Well, Jeff knows Jim and Jim knows Randy and Randy knows Carol, but does Carol know anyone 
with darker melanin than hers?  
Has she ever had a real conversation with someone that isn’t exactly
like her?    
She’ll talk about the soldiers that returned home.  
Maybe they have secrets, maybe they just 
don’t want to marry your cousin Tara and not go out on dance night in a cutesy neon glow.
So that her eyes really burn when you don’t introduce yourself in their vision of you.

Well, we’ve got a whole lot full of Americana showing muscle cars like White Horses.
Well, they’ve got the “Southern Charm” and the beers “keep on chuggin”
They converse over Hooters waitresses and decide to body shame a local stripper.
They get all bent out of shape that the gentrification isn’t really helping them.
Just more hipsters to pay wild money to keep a controlled art scene rolling.
Worried about a woman’s right or an all-encompassing freedom. Continually making them feel lesser than them.

Well, they would storm that capitol like a reptile and hoped the bankrupt billionaires would
 give them a thumbs up and a promise.
Well, they hoped he would release them from their “prisons” and in the end they’d get the virgins.
They would get to cross-over to their Epstein heaven.    
The marigolds just fall to shame being paid to stay silent.
Take your hat off and place your hand on your heart while a burnt-out cocaine mustache sings the 
national anthem.

Well, they can’t decipher in this world what is a zombie apocalypse from the beauty of real people
 walking in front of them.
Well, they think that they don’t have that dollar to spare the poor when they’re begging
, but they have plenty to spare to funding DeSantis or another cloned failure. 
To be the next television robot president, 
To be the next Hollywood hitman.
Well, I see that the money shortage hasn’t hit the mega churches when it comes to buffet picnic day.
To sneering looks and turning blind eyes to the fast-talking creepers watching the short shorts volleyball  game.

Willingly to spend $30 on a t-shirt that isn’t just for Jesus, but a little for waterslides, BBQ, and maybe to get Lee Greenwood to play a tune.

Well, then we have our small town boys, driving their new cars and feeling alright playing all the latest rap songs.  
Still they have the American Flag vibrating on their windows.   
Well, all the laughing girls think they can sing like Rihanna, 
but they live for cowboy hats behind the scene 
and live for designer jeans.
They think they can say any derogatory word and believe they are being “cool” and not offensive.
They are protected by the police, the lawyers, the daddies, the town, and the money.
Protected by the town’s tradition of 4th of July Fireworks and beauty pageants.   
For some it’s not a celebration it’s a stoning.

Well, let us see how the Cold War, a Civil War and a Vietnam War looks like wrapped in the same Christmas wrapping.
Well, let us see how Uvalde, Columbine, Sandy Hook, Minneapolis, la Drang Valley and Tulsa look in unison.
Well, that is where the world is headed.  
And we become enraged with our starvations.
and just think we cried over a little electricity in Newport.
and just think we cried over an award show tragedy.
and just think we cry over a delay every single day just to move 1 inch in a line.

Well, we are always worrying about political or gang affiliations.
Well, we can’t just put our brains together and try solving this cursed dissolvable nation.
We built this dirt on scars and stolen goods, 
too hard to repurpose the greed.
We just rebuild into new narcissisms.   
We feel we must revolutionize our way from our own suicides.
We still feel that they are coming for our malnourished taste.

Well, will it rain, or will it burn? 
Well, will the cars die, or will the wheels turn?
They say not to worry about the future on “our” borrowed time 
“But please let me control the present with my bleeding idealism”
Please hand me some form of uniform or costume 
so I will know my identity.  

I guess they’ll send out the Mark David Chapmans 
and they’ll send out the mob
they’ll send out the flags, and they’ll send out the dogs
They’ll send out the grim reaper to stick his sickle through your upper back.
They’ll come after you with their rights to bring artillery.
Forget Newport and let’s see if we can rust the machinery.
For all of those we can picket out whispers of “do you remember me?”

Newlyweds Breath

With my phalanges I sift through the roots of
wild red geraniums brushed to stroke by storm
petals, a crimson heart whole and swimming in 
the sky to ashore
 to wrestle in the water with the fish and moccasins.
We live bare, in soil, destroyed in fear, breathe in divinity
and twine around in the nucleus of our souls.

With the metatarsals running, break another bone
a letter to the beautiful, 
shall not be delivered.   Eyes die kissing
Fright is written in the stars and voices,
sing away our enemies.
You linger triumphantly to distract the hell that tries to gargle out.

With our lips still shining, not dry through the damnation
view ourselves loving, not superficial
Death, disease, broken strings, and a frantic chain
to heaven, we catch the absolute, the healing
dissolved in our sugars, ruined to rubble 
or live lonely for the false gods to feel beloved and praised.

We will be left a monument, cradled from body to body
as one, a hug, the virgin shores.   The planetary winds thump.
Shake me, dissolved in the growl
breathe in, my dear 
Let the sacrifices know that we were much more than stone.

The Whole Mythology is Collapsing

When we have bells, and we have angels
We’ve got harps and the birds perfectly singing.
We have a green field and an ocean of blue, wasting.
We give each other that look, and we can crave our tasting.

We can watch the stars brave the night
and mimic all the animal’s pacing.
We can become each other’s mind and wonder how we made it.

There were nights we sat in fear
threw the knives, burned the witch.
Crucified us and stoned us.
Bled in the streets paved from gold
Watched our tears grow into icy statues.
They slit our skin and looked for something foreign.

But they couldn’t see that we are just bones and seeds,
blood and meat, and love that shines brighter than a sunlit inferno.

We practiced the word and prayed till our hands were chapped.
We sat holy in silence holding each other’s head to the chest.
We hid like and Adam and Eve in their cannon of greed. 
While God chased them down in the Garden. 
A coiling snake chambers in with the chimes and tells us to step out of the cold.
because the whole Mythology is collapsing.

Collapsing into a chill.
Collapsing and watching the magic become real.
We zip from leather to steel and flake away our little pebbles.

The Bulls Rest Against the Stone

The art is drying against the walls
The glossy bleeding of a defeated brush
The chivalries are naughty behind a ripping curtain
There’s an acid cult, cold and broken behind a dirt road waterfall
It’s only Wednesday afternoon, the boorish and the loons.
I’m watching the alluring jazzy trees shake.
I’m a stick in this muddy hole, purring out for the fishing –
that makes me the bait really.

A new sky brings out a battling cry
Nebulous and disgusted walking around in 8-year-old boots
My feet are cold but I’m really just dynamite compared to the shouts of this falling moon.

Was I cruel when I made all to dance?
Was I crazy when I invented an exotic trance?
Was I the devil in the gentlemen’s clothes?
Was I the brave cartoon when unkempt and fearless?
Was it really my place to make a stand?

Isn’t really wonderful when the iceman finally melts
And you see he was nothing more than filthy water –
a flaccid jewel under a shaggy raindrop.
How breakable can the narcosis become?
Loud voices suddenly can only hum.

This town sours, and we walk to a midnight movie
take in the stars, and dream of eternity
But your eyes break into tears when you see –
the homeless man who always has classical music playing in his head,
you realize that man could someday be me.
He puts down his sign to sit down to some bread and suddenly the only movie is within your city view.

You realize that youthful, gifted & courageous was only ever the inner you.
She watches him slumber over for a nap when no longer erratic.
The fever comes and goes, the sweat breaks & the earsplitting drones.
Words dull.  The cults can’t even see the glow.
A thousand voices blaringly scream to go.  While you just stand there in silence, looking oafish
While the explosions melt the metal of all the thrones.
The grass stinks, the city is yellow and pink, and we know we are finally home
While the bulls rest against the stone.

The Picture Frames

We once danced together.  Attractive and bony
as you see in all the picture frames.
The pictures of youth, not of disease
not of old men and old women sitting in the dark.

We were experts at strawberry picking and flirtatious smiles
Religion and sunsets, babies and we had wonder.
Charles Mingus, the wildflowers, and the piano keys like waves.
Hooked in like crows to prey.

The wilderness was ours, at least the pictures show us in that way .
Not in hospital gowns, praying by the windows.
Writing last words.  Immovable boots
talking to dead flowers, counting those same tree rings. 
Looking for an end.

Our skin, no wrinkles
in picture frames, weathered and rusty
I will always love us. Even if I forget me.

Mrs.  Hedy Lamarr

Look out far, it is in your pockets, Mrs. Hedy Lamarr.
She is watching at us through a magnifying glass.
We are your little bugs, Mrs. Hedy Lamarr.

We are your switchblade smoke with eyes that stop all from talking.
Your tragedies are like circus peanuts for the show, Mrs. Hedy Lamarr.

The gas tank says empty, and the smoke is now becoming alarming,
O I feel like the burning skin is the scent of burning wood. Mrs. Hedy Lamarr.

Frozen in headlights like a little baby deer on the highway as 
the blind muses are walking through the years of my mind from the north town
 to the Southern cities, Mrs. Hedy Lamarr.

I see the sun beautify into a crimson, or is that you Mrs. Hedy Lamarr.
In a red dress curtain of sunlight over black heeled clouds.  
The frequencies were
 created in your wild mind.  Mrs. Lamarr

And you kept walking into the arms of few.  That took your mind as serious as stone.
Not of royalty or of genius, A complicated forgotten seriousness.  
The heads can do nothing but roll, Hedy.

Watching the limousines crash and spin in circles for the rest of our light, Mrs. Hedy Lamarr.


She hides. When I need her most.
I hide when she needs me most.
I need your haloes and your broken wings
I need the full moon and your half ones too.
I need your heart beating near mine forever if the cosmos have enough room.

I desire prayers that I should and shouldn’t
I feel like I’m losing some game between the praise and the ruined.
The church to the toxicity of my funeral.

I need your butterflies, not a stinging to fill my air.
I need your heart to beat madly, 
while mine dissipates from all my executions.
I want to be the man I’m afraid to be.

I want to be the man that finally brings our hope in Christ.
Into your eyes, and not the man who is a broken wheelbarrow.

Cursed Houses

I should entertain the goblins in the masquerade
If I could entertain the generic in their cursed houses.
I always was told the blowing leaves would be prophetic.
I can see the world exploding in slow emissions..
from the feet to the head.

We can be introduced to the bashful angels as all the snakes 
began to slither out of their ground holes.
We can drive through the Midwest past the Four Seasons, 
the floodwaters and the splintered trees and shook-up bridges.
Make our way from the locomotives in the middle of a fasting.
We are always in a hurry to become calm.

The haunted wind is blowing our orbs and friends around the morphing.
While the anxieties exploded through our veins and our arms just shrivel up.
As me, a deflated has been whom has tinkered around for years as a never was.
I called upon the god, and he told me to believe as he furiously laughed at me.
I should have told that rainy heaven that I was just trying to be the entertainer.

Wrapped inside of this glass I was taken like a thief 
in the night to my awakening.  
Cursed Houses everywhere, I feel this curse is aware-
Bleeding me into obsessive compulsive, nude from noon to evening’s shred.
One arrow pointed to pine the other towards Fox Hollow. 

I met a lovely wisp of breath, a bravery overtook me.
She said “prepare for the famine instead of the fantasy”
You know the faux from the fraud, 
the Egyptian witch spell from the dawn.
Just live like you’ve always belonged to this generation.

I met the minister with the glass eye and the forked tongue.
He tried to fill my belly up with gin. I was told to follow him
and taken an introductory class to become a prophet.
My first prophecy once I was done was to have 10 sons and step on as
 many feet as a ghost drinking in the energy of a thousand jewels.

On the next holiday a new prophecy.
A nation of women with biting fangs into the fruit of prose and poetry.
This will become part of an updated testament.
Words like apocalypse and apologize, no mountains, no hide.
Just breathe in the burning bushes and become golden for the night.
Get out the woodwinds and the brass 
and dance in the naked ambitions.

Sitting around in the smoke on our tongue.
nose whistling and I feel the quivering into an epileptic séance.
There is the pure room, and we watch Mary become poker faced
when she is giving birth to the magician.

I’m just aching to be swimming in the holy water flood from these cursed houses.

Bio: David L O'Nan is a poet, short story writer, editor living in Southern Indiana.  He is the editor for the Poetry & Art Anthologies "Fevers of the Mind Poetry and Art. and has also edited & curated other Anthologies including 2 inspired by Leonard Cohen and 1 for Bob Dylan, as well as the anthology series "Bare Bones Writing" He has self-published works under the Fevers of the Mind Press "The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers" "The Cartoon Diaries" & "New Disease Streets" (2020). A compilation of 4 books "Bending Rivers" a micro poem collection "Lost Reflections" and new book "Before the Bridges Fell" (being revised under Fevers of the Mind Press)  & "His Poetic Last Whispers" (2022)  David has had work published in Icefloe Press, Dark Marrow, Truly U, 3 Moon Magazine, Elephants Never, Royal Rose Magazine, Spillwords, Anti-Heroin Chic, Cajun Mutt Press, Punk Noir Magazine, Voices From the Fire.  Twitter is @davidLONan1 and for the book @feversof     Join Facebook Group: Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Arts Group .   Facebook Author page DavidLONan1  

A “Cursed Houses” pt. 1 Poetry Showcase from David L O’Nan – September 2022

A Quicksilver Trilling by David L O’Nan    : Poetry & Writing style lyrics inspired by Dylan 

New Poem from David L O’Nan “September is my Blind Girl”  

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 Wren 

Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle

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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