from the series “The Empath Dies in the End”
Gilded Peacocks in Coffins (Ant Farm Empath)
1 (from Elizabeth Cusack) I am on safari today Leading around an empath He is high on feeding ants Then watching them brawl We are surrounded now by fire ants But he is not bothered at all He loves his ants as much as he loves me And I’m not bothered at all. 2 (from David L O'Nan) 300 miles away on a crowded boulevard They are watching peacocks fight in the street The winner gets the moneybag, the loser gets the feathers and the coffin. Feathered fans are to be beautiful, Where is the beauty in brutality? 3. Let’s walk down skid row, and crawl around some suspicious bones. To get to that half-eaten waffle that looks like it isn’t too disgusting just yet. They have August prancing in the streets, aids in her blood and – No blankets on her cold feet. Still, Mr. Jack Daniels wants to throw her – On the back of a Harley and treat her to his idea of Neverland. 4. We can’t always believe empathy will lead us to sincerity, it often leads us to depravity. We wish upon crooked beaten stairs with loos nails, falling from the brittle sky. Continuously and see if we can wake up from a nightmare or just sweat through another dream. A murder was caught on videotape and they showed the world in blue lights. I believed Gandhi was there paralyzed and crawling through the deserts of scorned corn. 5. They began to walk the peacocks in coffins to bury them in the desert, and all I’m thinking about- Is you, a love that honesty died in. I never fully met the woman you became after your many scared ideas. Confusion was a common feeling and was the constant weakness. And in your strong heart you felt you could change them. Maybe they were never your appetite and my taste a little too Avant Garde to explore. A little clumsy, a little wanderer that wouldn’t stray too far from your pains that I’ve always felt in my fingers. 6. We found the man with the ants, fire ants… burning through dirt. Scarring our asses and chewing at our fruits. Maybe we shouldn’t all be soldiers after all, Monarchies, hierarchies, control us to our last debts. Does the last of humanity have a voice, or does the cannonball Singe louder than the guitar strings while my pain sings louder than imploding bombs. + July 2022 Poetry Showcase by Elizabeth Cusack + Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.
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