Poetry: Gilded Peacocks in Coffins (Ant Farm Empath) collaborative poem from Elizabeth Cusack and David L O’Nan

photo from pixabay

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 I’ll 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. Then met were your 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 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.


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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