Poetry Showcase from David L O’Nan : Cursed Houses pt 3

Cardiac Weekend

Before a few last breaths, 
We know this home of broken glass
the wet and murky weekend-
keeps reminding me to spill out
and swim with the wind through the craters
in flaky air.  Nebulous artificial passing in and out of knowing.

Cut light, temporary
Pulling the light from the strings of stars
Yet, just hypnotic darkness. 
Tamed by axiomatic spins. Memories. Memories. Memories.
Pitiful broken mind, just glide with the silence.

Love like the sad.  
No matter how superficial the clouds may be-
from moment to moment. 
Hideaway like the shy from the gunpowder.
Gusting bullets through the silky ripples. 
The willpower is a long highway. 
I can hear a million children singing “Goodbye”
as the fireflies exit for a deeper dark night.


Screams, Tears, Tennessee Voodoo

I woke up in some Adams, Tennessee cave.  
A few weird people walked around me
to go away or I’d become their slave.   
So, I jumped up as good as my dead legs could.
I could hear Screams, Tears, and Tennessee Voodoo.
I backed out and knew to expect a curse.

I began enjoying my time watching you eating away your dimes that you found in
 an old box of rhymes and some dolls that looked like pinned peppers.
You came coughing up the cuts and the old sugar cane.  The door you would always leave
 wide open to a stranger’s touch was suddenly closed when a cold hand touched your dusty lips.

You smelled of oregano, 40 year old wine, you had lipstick teeth and looked smoggy and a little wobbly.
You looked like the materialistic in the petting zoo. Oh, how we all feel like the Adonis even when
 the frightening is hovering in our blood and mirroring our brain.  When every dream you’d have
ended in a hideaway sewer, with some wrasslin' weasel offering you to be his piece of cake.

Then the world grew into you, met a few friends, drank a few and began to spend.
Spending nights in plastic neon blue and wondering why you didn’t know who’s hand was the knock on your door.  
Was it Mr. Peasant or Mr. Posh? All that you knew was a new daughter was calling you a mom. And you’d
just stare off like some alien was beaming down from the Milky Way Galaxy to abduct you.

With sandpaper feet, whiskey bottle cut toes, blazing knees, snotty elbows.
You came prancing to me like it was 20 years ago., and you acted like we were some best friend coffeehouse companions.   Reminiscent of the cathartic psychic lady whispering to a crystal ball. A wailing soothsayer daring you to run, run, run.

I was then aloof, just an old-fashioned goof.
I tricked my heart to love only you.
While the pages in the papers already rendered me disabled.  
By words I would trip upon, by a dumb joke, a slouched back, and a watered smile built from many 
of your drownings.

So I have nothing left of your memory but this plastic Happy Birthday balloon that refuses to fly
 into some simmering sky full of fireworks and your flawless plagiarism. 
You stamped a curse into my permanence.   
Can someone help pull these quills from my skin and bones?

Small Deaths in my Burning Bedsheets

I’ve dreamed of my death, quickly, the fire, the burning bedsheets.
I feel I’ve had this dream for a month straight.
I’m going to begin this crippling while lying in this bottle.
You must know crows.  I can begin smelling their burning souls.
You can feel my warmth from what is left of me in this insipid beating heart.

The world doesn’t want me.  I am wooden.
I am being whistled through the inside of my head.  
They don’t want me.
The mask of a whining voice reading out poetry.  
Hey son, pretending to be Poe?   Bleed like a common man.
Bleed like this vocal bland.  
Bleeding all over your tanned shoulder tattoos.
Like some entrapped snake in a spider’s web.

I paint pictures for the cages of silence.  I paint pictures through words for 
the autumn, Spring and Winter.   The Summer’s heat just drains me and I melt
 in with the drought. I want to record all my last breaths.  
You can release them as autographs to the world.  If anyone can remember art again,
 written words again.  After all the new celibate diseases are done picking up people 
in a new goldrush. 

Sell me a new reason to dream again, to be a dream machine and less of a blinking lamp
 post unknown “when will the city ever going to fix that?”  
Maybe in an hour or two. You can hear what is left of me, hissing, or mumbling out a crying
 chaotic prayer.  
Prepare me in sheets and watch me shake in the meantime.   Wondering what is real and
what is phantom driven.


Noah and Satchmo

Do you remember Noah Stevens or Satchmo with the oily hair?  
Car mechanics in workingmen’s clothing.
Chew on tobacco like fire chews on coal.
They are on a race to find the gold, every night at the bars they harass the women.

While Old Noah.  Well he’s only 51.  But he acts as though he’s been through the 2nd World War.
He’s got a bulimic wife at home.  He’s got awards for his days as a rifleman in college.
Oh that wife, he just gives her dirty looks.  He bitches that she bitches and says he doesn’t complain.
Gaslighting all the while he chugs down his nightly poisons before heading out to flirt with 
peroxide Patty and dance damply with Heather, Riva and the pregnant bartender.

Oh Satchmo goes every night, a little more reluctant since he’s divorced since the addictions
 became more active.  Since his son drowned at the friend’s party house.  Why, it’s a beautiful sunset 
though.  He walks right in to the deafening crowd. Pool tables sound like race cars running through the
 wall.  Old Satchmo at 49 smells vaguely of gasoline and some extinct cologne from 1989.  He’s got a 
hunger for greasy bar fries with cheesy chunks and heart attack glittery reflections from his ceramic
 Rooster picture plate.   
He walks in with depression, he drinks a few hours and he walks out with a blond curl attached to 
 his oily t-shirt promoting some motorcycle, some Americana symbol flag, and a hope to see a future
that is still the past.

Noah Stevens, Father of the year.  He pretends and tells his women that he’s single.  
He’s got wonderful pictures of 3 kids on his flip phone to show them.   Hey, look at Dory, look at Jim,
look at Holly she looks more like him. He smiles and says “thank god since the mom was a little ugly”
They just giggle and say he has nice dimples, and he keeps his mustache trimmed nicely.  And they 
are having a little trouble with their chassis.    
Maybe he can come by for a possible discount.

The men are cannibals, and clueless to the meat.  Oil rags stuck in the back pockets down to their
 feet.  Not much money coming in lately.  It must be the politics not the free car repairs.   They still
just think they’ve got the life in this percolating Arizona heat.

The Mandolins Become Shrapnel

Marbled ground, weeds way too high and it was a tight dark evening
when the dreamers on the streets played mandolins and instruments
that felt like I was making love to the city with the faint of stroke.
I saw the heartbeats in the air shaking, 
a little scared by the staring moon.

I sat down with the bone cutters and felt guiltless that I never, 
I never asked her name as her silver heart shattered when the 
exploring wind went from a gentle to a quick gust of jealousy and ripped 
the mandolins and our moment became shrapnel.

I quickly whipped out a bible and brought in the beliefs, the Jesus talks.
 The fixation on the stars and forget the Hollywood fires, my skin just 
feels like shaking.  And then I felt the fainting as the Scotch kicked in.

I was derailed the next morning, 
with unlucky rabbit’s feet scattered on the street.
I think the fortune teller flipped their card to a suicide light last night.
Watching for the ocean to become a little more than a pathetic dizzy, spotless shiver.

So I walk the streets looking for a smoke.
I get thrown up against the wall for 10 bucks and a 5-year-old picture of a girlfriend from
 5 years ago still stuck inside of a wallet.
When we were both cute in our hobo dirt casuals. Before the menace took away our ceiling
 to a new day.

I start to look and feel like the alleged raccoon that has been rummaging trashcans looking
 for the kindhearted. Look for hours, obsessively, compulsively, All I can find is tangled 
spiderwebs and a joke in a can.

They tell you to be careful as you trip all over yourself in the streets.
The devil has your shoelaces tied to the wrong feet.  With inclimite weather every day now,
Just dying for you to fall back asleep. To get a peek of yourself in your self destruction.

The money flies all around past the blue dress moans and the hissings.
The corners are covered in bones, and engagement rings that fell out of the pockets of hopeless strangers.   And you wonder where the howls are coming from?   
Across the street or from the wilderness?

The warning has been out there in your fix, 
in your own Andy Warhol mind tricks.
In your convict’s robe full of medallions and bejeweled bird shit.
The waif man with the cigarette and curly hair dares you to climb the tallest tree to look
 down at us and past it all.

There is no escaping fear, that evolution put you here on a day that God was slap happy
 and creating the foolish and the hellish.  You act shunned and apologetically decaying.
You fall to your knees with dirt in your fingernails and bleeding feet.   
You ask him for explanation and not invisibility, you ask for hope not machinery.

Your word isn’t your bond it’s your sticky smile slobbering.
New lies created for us to justify our existence and admire your pretty red apple exterior.
Quickly we go to icicles as the water floods us in this sacred holy trembles.
We bob out of the depression holding the holy bible and mosquitoes that keep biting our posteriors.

I was born naked and died like the witch. I’m starting to see more colors in a lucky twitch in 
and out of seeing my boots breaking at the heel and drinking in new infections.
In this city the culture has been squeezing in a bruising, push into some stranger’s leather cushion.
Well it feels a little rock and roll and feels a little like an intrusion.

The downtown vagrant meets the snails.   The chains meet the cloak to the clanking of erotic bells.
And I feel that hell has become more curious in me than once thought.  At least a little more than
 what the prairie billboards once taught us.
Oh, those billboards by the way are just a hole for the vultures to fly through.
listen to the breaking Mandolins, as our skeletons become shrapnel.

Love Thy Neighbors

Sweating in an overheating dying car,
by a baby copperhead filled ditch.
The trailer across the street in ruins.
2 old people yelling at each other until their false teeth fall out.
2 pretty but slightly ragged dogs wander the yard, hungry.
Hoping for drops of dogfood from last week.

Now we have the camera man
howls at midnight on his front lawn.
Pacing back and forth, vaping who knows what.
Videotaping everyone who walks by (women, children)
Who is he looking for?  Who has he damaged?
The truth is probably more damaging than the uprooting of his stalking.

We have children playing fight club from yard to yard.
Are they learning to fight, are they learning to hate?
Never wearing a shirt, driving tiny scooters through the street.
Where are the guardians, the parents, the people that supposed to care for them?
Screaming over money, worrying about methamphetamine and fentanyl fixes.

We have family that you trusted, that’ll kick you to the curb
when their lives become more unique, when they become scared
when they want to move on and party with the damages they have caused.
While the old man stares at you and plays teenager games with the women.
Who can resist a curmudgeon who wants the attention of a brat?

We have a street filled with break ins and gang colors that run-in red.
Maybe they run in blue.  Maybe they run in pairs.  They run for the dare.
They are challenged to shoot down their first mare.  
They are watching you when you sleep, through the windows they will peek
 and hope they are a little ajar.  They are coming from hard knocks to harder knocks...To no knock at all.  They have been stripped of empathic values and now everyone is seen 
as robotic.

The love of the neighborhood.  The death of trusting. The blood runs down the streets and dries imprinting demons to haunt for years and years.

Just Painted a Blue House

Power drained after the fresh blue coat over this wasted home.
After that acute fire, I was dry, I was dire.
I am in the grey floodwaters. 
Dead tree branches fizzle in the boiling ponds.

And I feel this gun in my back,
Just shoot it now.
Take away all that pain with one flick of an aching finger.

I was feeling like I had never grown up.
Waiting lifetimes fade, yet still waiting for the past people to go.
They want to stay forever, 
and you can never get the apologies just right.
And she’ll be there always in the background dancing and reminding you of your second or third levels of your hells.

Just let them fade away as memories.  Please.
Let their ghosts be lost and their soul be in another universe.
So I can see the magic that lay right before me the way I want to be surprised over and over again. Magic.

You set yourself in an impermanence blackhole, 
and watch where all the circulation
-
burns out in this oven until I feel cooked and ashed.
Does my toes still wiggle in this cemetery?  It is cold out here with the old apple cores,
and the scavengers flying down for quick bites of the rose.

We are powerless and the army has no artillery.
Our blinking light wars shine away our existence back to black and white-grey to the rusted-in
 blue... the colors this house has always been.


The River Near the Osage Mint

I met the supernatural near this river by Osage Mint
on a wet June day, fertile ground full of footprints.

Soon to take a stride into its whiskey haze
into the merging sunset to climb into the safety net of night.

Just watching the birds from the nearby dead city
float over without fearing a new broken wing.
I wished my eyes could do the same.

A glowing orange-blue light cuts the waters into a swirl.
I can meditate here ‘til my bones would feel it no more.
To feel the pain just ride with this river like waves on an ocean’s shore.

This is my evening to recover in a collecting suds of grey to wobble 
to run faster to the edge.
Maybe the king lives within the waters to drown your narcissistic glare.

The River, The River near Osage Mint.    Distress calls and I’ve shed enough.

Utopian Window Blinds

I met John Christopher after I
awoke from bright brain
damaging lights and a spinning
stomach of cocktails of poisons.
 
He dressed like a wizard,
clouds gathered pulleys of gods and he
shut the utopian window blinds.
 
He offered me a dollar burrito
as his naked girlfriend walked in.
She took 2 steps towards the fridge and purged
a gallon of wine into particles of cat litter.
 
I want to get back to the
windows where maybe I can see
heaven in distances, or
mountains bare of snow.
 
I’m lucky to know this stranger
who kindly sings to us, gives
us the gifts of impressionist
art and Beethoven’s piano
tattooed in his brain.
 
I’m unlucky that I haven’t woke
up and maybe that party was
just a fool’s joke and maybe
behind those thunderstorms is
the bite of the lame, the
slaughter, the hug of raging water.
 
Beautify my broken heart
Look into my mind and tell me
I am Magical
Don’t let me slip, crooked and without a home.
 
Let me sit with the shadows
and let me remember the
women that used to flirt with these unknown soldiers.

Murdered by the Gypsy Ghosts

I planned on the world to be a little demonic
Afraid of the visions that not all of us can see.
Left the art blind, and watch the damaging spoiling fruits.

From a cloudy sidewalk, the sun sits lonely
like the ghost of a gypsy.
Those murdered the sinners at the party when criminals
and jugglers did the same wispy dances.
Until their legs all broke in a vengeful wedding 
where everyone just nods, sways, and drinks the rust from the rain.

Struck me dead in a sorcerer’s wink when flower children fell asleep in the sinks and tubs.

I wasn’t planning on the seashore’s bitter taste and all the kisses that
followed were pipes of poisons.

They are knitting clothes in 100-degree sunshine and
people can begin to imagine a blurry demon within the dry rot thorns...
and the stems of nature trail bibles.
Arrow us to the gypsy’s farm. Breads and hauntings and friendly ravens
 chanting elegies during a cult formation dream.

Row a grey tin boat into some mucky green waters.
All you see is the bones rise up when the moon hits the shine of the lake.

Try to run away – yet you are the quiet mouse
hypnotized by the bearded lion in a 
moo moo and a scarf, tight jeans, and homemade cigarette scars.

I’ll be squirming in the drunk Dracula’s laugh.
Then I’m feeling safe when I see and feel the hook, line, and sinker 
The gathering comes in, the masked trees, green leaves, and gentle breeze.
Hunting mushrooms on the hill.  I follow the wizard and the lady without clothes

About to be murdered by the gypsies, chanting like banshees on the railroad.

Corpse Flowers

Oh my honey is blown out like a cyclone, 
the air smells like corpse flowers
The storm must have been a bad one.  Unruliness was the only rule.
The town deputy is speechless...  And his racism is lost in translation.
There are sips on Jameson.   
There are muttering homeless looking for a blanket.
There are men with straw hats spray painting signs about torture.
There are no abortion signs falling down like dominoes. 

What I hate to say is, maybe our town is needing a tornado.
Maybe every girl and every boy needing a little rummage 
through this junk...
To find what is authentic and what is damaged.
Where are the friends that said they’d warn us?   Where are the protectors?
Fragmented gentlemen.   Exploited women.   
The foes meet the flock.
The blisters are popping from every hitting rock.

An old man’s last breath, quell his appetite to be released
from the worries of glory and the worries of having to live in a battle
day in, day out, naked, bruised up, bravado doctrines, and hungry skeletal stomach.
His lady, tired of his whiplash and persisting witchery
decided to empty her lips of its dry intimacy, 
take the dolls and the talisman
and drop a little iodine in the jar, make a bottle of poisonous wine.

The sky has cracked now, raining down a hailing of tiny eyes
we are invaded in waves to the crutches of a slanted hallway
We love how to shadows look in the hidden arms of new divinity. 
They lead the dragon to the bait.   The flames now icy.  Our bodies impressing gods
to a new spiritual color.   
Excavated a million miles of corpse flowers.
A little wind just blew in.


The Womanizers

She thought she found someone
to lead her from the party scene
Tossing beer to beer
Another bruise to bruise, ill-fated reflection.

Failing again and again, endlessly
She never could sit in the comfort,
from a coffee to a library shelf.
“What’s your number, darling”
From the corners of her eyes –
would walk up, another womanizer.

With headlights on the spotlight of her.
Strangers and the hundreds of eyes panning through crowds.
I was one of those that already thought he knew her.
While at home she is putting makeup on in her deathbed.
Springsteen liner notes from a scratchy vinyl of Born in the USA.
She is a rainstorm inside her head.
Diving into the knives in her breath.

She looks at the lines in her palm and squeezes just a little bit tighter.
Must silence the maddening queasiness for her mother and sister and daughter,
She is so uneasy; the last pill was an acidic swallow.
She laid down on a calloused pillow and prayed away for peace.
To dream away the violent hearts of those womanizers.

Fishkill, NY 

It was a lame morning, another
picayune argument amongst
the early risers and the late-night ravers.
I was tender in my muscles
I was craving the sugar I once found in Fishkill, New York.

We had many moments together in a late Spring Week and a half.
From a Friday the 13th (another speeding ticket)
until Memorial Day (another uncle buried)
That man fell over dead in a redundant consignment shop.
Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Dale Earnhardt, and a collection of racist dolls.
He had a woman he was seeing there, while his wife was working hard
 making money at the bank.
He was pretty much a rain drenched jerk. 
No umbrella while chasing lace.

While in Fishkill I took Sugar off the hitching thrills
A free spirit, with the Lord dancing in her bellbottoms.
Let me in to your flaky rides to the city my darling.
She failed to tell me she was twice married.
Once at 16 again at late 17.
Divorced when the babies never came.

I said “Well I’m just a 19 year old bad writer”
"Not ready for a family or to exchange rings just yet."
"Let’s just walk around the river and kiss by the trees."
She said “Well I guess that is fine with me, I’ve only known you since
the birds began singing daily.”
“Just drive me in your yellow car and away from my mama’s watermelon seed porch”

So she thought everyone was out to abandon her.
She began to mature more and more on the next lonely night.
I pretended I could stay forever, then like a punk I’d escape when feelings felt too real.
Escaped to a drunken night on my cousin’s boat dock.

She said “I am glad that maybe my instincts are fully developed”
“And maybe you are just another boner in Fishkill’s Friday trash pickup”

Away for another 6 months
the yellow car now with a broken door handle.
I got a job as a butcher cutting meat in a neighboring town.
Did a little grilling too. Did some cheap stealing and felt cool.
I always had thought about quitting every day.

Then I saw through a blurry eyed morning.
She was there in the store with a man twice her age.
Mustached and muscles, tattoos of fast cars and demons.
I said hello, and she faked a smile.
To detract from her new green apple, I was showing too much red,
blushing because...
I was realizing that hidden love in my heart never left.

She whispered to me when he went to get some fresh cold cuts
I’m in the tiger’s cage now, I could feel her loneliness and rage.
She left me a letter that read “maybe someday” 
sitting on a tomato paste can. I slipped it behind a cobwebbed can of beans when mustache 
began looking.
Maybe maturity comes from a narcissistic smoke as it fades.
Your “ideal women” and you’re a scared boy battling urges to leave.
I couldn’t find her again and the good-bye left me pining for years.
I always wondered as I quit that job.
Dressed in jeans, a dirty hat and paint smeared jacket.
Began to head away from I-84.  
I bought some shoes and exchanged payments with some villagers for some basic goods.
I found my love throughout years on the road.

Learning to swim as a man
Once I got cleared out of Fishkill’s throat.

Farewells to Katies

She comes invisible or made up.  
A trick by the selfish. Feels like I’m losing my faculties.
Lost in the Valley of Gehenna
After each one.

Some are polaroid pictures
Sent to you as a teen.
In some pose, In another state
You make acoustic songs about how someday you’ll meet
But you never will.

Some failed sobriety, feigned innocence,
Drugging starry eyed cowboys.  She can’t be alone.
She’d force herself through him and come out with his soul
And you would gnaw on that for years.

He would often dream of your promise that you would murder him in his sleep.
So much for salvaging a lonely friend’s call.
A trap and a lie.  To try to join your hipster circle of friends ad hoc.
A hundred something mile drive to help each other die.

A little more, a little more inside.

Farewell to all the Katies.

Copperas Cove, TX

You have spent the night with the diva of the bingo halls
Who’s address says you’re in Copperas Cove, Texas.
Smeared ink letters scatter the floor from some man named Hank.
He says "hey baby I will fold up the clouds and mail them to you."

I close the door like a Paper Tiger.  
The blurry night has become some homeless day.
Someone says hey friend watch me swim.  You begin to wonder if you’ve already met him.
You see a Heavenly bridge and he jumps off into the muddy lake.
I spend the whole day watching the fragile...
become the frightened weak fake.

I saw a drowning man cough up a fish.  
He sank, forgot to swim.
Became baptized.
Watched his ghost rise up and fill up with pollution.

For I am dead if they know my secret
The rattles heard over a long distance.  
There are those out to destroy and those who just want to solicit
And implicate you into an affair with the long-lashed mindbender.

I find it hard to listen to the stories of the rivers.
I realized a one-night stand was with the blur of the whiskey’s burn.
Her ugly brother and his buddy that is 10 years older start skidding through the rocks.
Before dawn, it would be me gone...
and them the virginity thieves and the town arsonists...
Which was always their town legacy.

I went out of Texas in the dark
Streetlamps and tornadic air nourished my anxiety and my wisdom.
I had to suddenly remember my promise to be a little more than a smothered bug.
I just keep finding new fires that don’t want to completely burn.
Greeting me with some stinging bees and some stomach pain apples
 was the pencil thinned pimpled mustache in pink shorts and no expression.

He says come to this door or else you will become a fossil.
Climb over these walls, cut your feet on the rocks and 
just throw your arms out towards the breeze.  
The crowd will certainly catch you as you fall.
Just believe, faith, nourish yourself with the spit in your thirst.
Inhale the dust as it blows by you forever.

A Broken Pocketwatch Genius

Heard a gunshot through the golden curtain
They were ringing bells and smacking tambourines on our adventure.
I woke up on the greyhound bus, dumbfounded with a boner.
I can only remember someone whispering a smokey smell into my ear.
And then I went to a faint.  
A pocketwatch missing and several ladies singing loudly
Anyone here could have been the culprit.

Sitting in piles of sweat,  the heat boils me to anger.
My jeans are dirty and stained.  Someone’s needles rolling down a blanket.
I just sit there trying not to dwarf myself in this world of giants.
Sloped over and hiding my head in a t shirt.  
I was put here to go to war with the bubbles in my head I am just popping them and looking around to see who will be the snitch.
So I can maybe lead myself out of a touch of pandemonium.

By the edge of the bus I leaned and rested my aching head.
I smoked 2 cigarettes with a belly dancer who smelled like the walking dead.
I see a collection of papers on the floor and I know we are somewhere in the south.
I see Missing Persons Posters folded under a green skirt and a musky towel. 
Have I made a deal with the sin of flesh, or a greasy devil?
Have I made my genius wasted by hanging my clothes in the land of honey and feathers?

I see this girl from many moons ago across the street.  I suddenly feel a little safe 
Even though she never imagined me.  She imagined herself as a stranger to kindness,
 and as a dart to be thrown blindly to the glass.   She was innocent once, then new cables,
And new wires to trip her into doubt.  She was once my dream when she wasn’t sharing the last
 name of some fella’.    Yet here I am still thinking that she was the one that could have known me 
better than anyone.

The Mother that Knows All the Ways to Hell

I noticed that there was this dummy in the store that has the same nose 
as your mother.

I feel the gorgeous, pale stare
Talk'n and flirt'n with me like a snob to beautiful weather.

Half-heartedly, emasculating
And feeling like I’m the stale shelled snail.
Within her heart, she lives bizarre
Oh, her world is malicious and well-to-do
But she takes pride in birthing the oddness in you.

Now, in the private moment.
A party for the serfs shoveling further into hell.
A handsome look as the razor took...
My hair from my skin, and suddenly my need for skin came back.
Suddenly I’m a muscular fugitive.

I am slightly ratty and stolen.
Leather jacket eyes sees from the lockbox
And watch my past strangers now feel like old angels in my stare.
I felt my hand touched by the arguments and the society bends.
As frisky as the fly.  That keeps landing on your sweaty thigh.

Women like you told me to breathe in the sweet and the sour.
Look at your future, and do you feel expensive or just a broken tan..
With bawdy chains hanging down and begging for a swing?
So I go from cold to a heated heartbroken.
To a burning eye full of tears.

Must be the ejected fireballs of smoke at this endless card game.
Maybe the young missy insulted my ego.
Made me feel a little less of it.
Began to feel like nothing more than like a lunchroom bandit.
From man to worm can be an easy transition.

People you love begin to die
And you go from milky to soiled dirt.
The gangs in the town is full of soapbox gangsters.
They remember you for your five minutes of fame,
And less for being a broken bottle father.

Look at you, old nails in hands
Just an asshole lost in the floral store.
Trying to apologize to a world forgotten.
Picking up the ash and jewels in the other hand
Contemplating the adoring looks to an adoring permanence.
But you can’t explain the depression.

Now in the acoustics of a tapping on the table.
Wondering what to do.  
The woman you loved received the ticket,
And you just stand there with a rose, a comb, and a suitcase of bills.
And with how your luck is going you’re shrinking -
Underneath all your strength.

Sure, let us try again to be discovered.
A Marlon Brando with withdrawal effects.
Drank yourself until a blues harmonica is superglued inside your head playing Mississippi Delta Blues.

Now, you’re talking to the priest every single day.
Trying to pick which sins are sins from the heart, and which 
were sins from the bone.
They put you under a spell and then break the heart.
Began to crave the needles in the park, 
and all the new societal dreamers and dyings.

Well, watch me invent you a rain dance.
Jumping puddles, the mosquitoes just digest all the air that bleeds around them.
You’re like a tick although, attach to any straying stranger.
I always believed I was the fool, then I began to see all the screws begin falling from your
 machine.

You were built from plastic when you thought you were Eve and I was crushed Apple.
Dialing the Gods for a possible refund.   No tricks or soul agreements.

When we hang around in pairs, my dopey smile, jelly sandwich morals were challenged.
By the swamps and the crocodiles barking cajun slurs.
I say "hey sweetie look at his moon", as a mistake she said
“We aren’t one in this constellation”
"Forget it, just watch the beauty of that sky and for once imagine yourself as the whole entire ocean."

I overheat on broken bricks, a battered walk and feet coming through my shoes in this spark...In the dark.
I am just wishing to either be kissed 
or be killed and just get it over with.
Tired of patience when the dysfunction in me convulses and lay as feed to the breeding monsters.
Maybe the end is in a drink or an infected wrist. 
The stems are broken and I’m bitter and I’m gin.
Downtown bedroom sheets always rip and are tattered.

Your mother always told you not to talk to impure looking spiders.
She knows all the ways to hell since she survived the fires.


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

1 comment

  1. David O’Nan is a poet but he may be a sorcerer in his Cardiac Weekend. Or into a world of dreams in Screams, Tears, Tennessee Voodoo. In Small Deaths and My Burning Bedsheets, he fashions his death and exhorts us to give a reason for him to continue his furtive imaginings in word and paintings. Do you have the power or are incited to provide reason for such as him? In Noah and Satchmo he colorfully tells a story of two grimy men in a way that MUST make you feel better. It is a story of confirmation, to send you on your way of superiority, as you love their place, so much lower than your own. Love Thy Neighbors describes a region of hell… Of voyeurs with horns and long tails being forced into your face. This is the world of O’Nan in fantasy and grime, incitement and torment. You were minding your own business and this magician named David came along. Watch your step.

    Liked by 1 person

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