I met you in the death to skin fires In sticky pits full of fallen stars A dark red-curtained nauseous room with the moonlit hissing Your room is a dying egg shell white bleeding angel artwork, the Mona Lisa convulses off the walls. You broke my eggs to the Dirty Three the yolk is a permanent black crisping to wet dirty cement, Breathing up from the ground To paralyze me to this memory Pause, run, running I feel homeless Fainting to your lectures You fed me pills and secrets You harshly took my heart out, and drained it like a sponge. I have to escape this, I have to escape this, I have to escape this,These claws that gripI have to escape this, I have to keep running from this, I have to escape this, So fast from the macabre The claws that rip The hands of knives want to purge me into the holes, To fall in, and smell the sourness of a body That sweats away the alcohol That dances out all her dirty arrogance. The few that swim out The feeling I have to swim out I’ve got to swim out, This drowning, This drowning, Is closing in, I’m forever changed by your tattooing Left me in tears Leave me scared Leave me feeling sick and departed From my mind Leave me blushing in with fevers and leave in a hypnotic taboo. I drove away When you didn’t want me to I drove away Because I had to I drove away From this Kentucky Mountain Medusa In an alcoholic veil Mentally bruising Mentally washed Mentally forever wondering Mentally i’m ashamed When you were the one drawing all of the lines. In my car I try to scream But I can’t In my car I try to breathe But I can’t In my car I drive faster than the speed I drive into the black hole eyes of the road. Like chaos in the melting snow and the violins play louder “I Knew it Would Come to This” Again Paralyzed when the sky blackened The road feels like a lost tunnel with these, dim lights.
from books "The Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and Whispers" and "Bending Rivers"
Buried hearts at Tumbleweed Corner.
The thistles split apart bad men as they choke.
Santa Fe, on a hot New Mexico morning.
The jury decided to hang the man.
They follow with chisels, with rope.
A chilling smile,
Their creepy walk.
Like a dictator marching from their tomb.
Cuff marks leaving my hands raw and sore.
Dry air sucked in,
On the septic trails,
My dusty boots enriched in blood.
From a man that found his soul.
He was lost forever from his native Ohio.
He met his demise here in New Mexico when -
The sunrise began to drop dead heat on the wagons -
during our horses first meal of the morning.
The lonely man,
He was enamel
bare to the shaking,
the menacing inevitable.
Once he saw my hatchet teeth,
My bull rope eyes
He was just collecting horseshoes off dirty roads.
Those cloudy roads named in honor of befallen heroes.
As I sat there, judgment awaiting.
The judge sweats the sun's breath.
Moving his body into a boring inertial state.
He's a rock
And will not change.
His mind is predetermined
My lifeforce begins to drip.
To image itself as melting metal.
I become a shy child.
The people look at me with evil intentions.
Purity no more in their Christian hearts.
They wait to see my remorse.
My sunburnt face with the boils,
The leather chapped cheeks
The flaming sticks for a nose,
The ears that are dark and hidden like a tunnel.
The face that can't find the guilt.
I've been ripped away from my internal being.
I can only hiccup memories to the brain
The crying mornings,
Under this town's smoldering bridge.
Almost every morning.
They grab me by the stale leaf hair.
Pull my hungered body to the bird-shit ground.
The smell is now of old crusts and ashes.
That hot New Mexico sun has been burning -
my skeleton chest through my flannel shirt,
My bank robber legs through my tattered jeans
The sun poisoned my mind to obscenity.
I'm clinging to you,
Clinging to your thistles, Lord
I've eaten from all the ratty coffee cans too long.
I spit out all the ashes
Of all the dreamers.
Just rake away.
Tired of the spirits of those
I've killed for green greed, awakening me
Kissing the blade of the machete
A sorrow of laughter,
And then disappearances into -
The nocturnal rib of the air
Tumbleweed Corner is now heartless.
Those that were buried are now walking
They become the zombie vision,
Thieves that stole back their dignity.
My soul is left for scavengers.
Drag me away like rags.
Empty with the scars
To bury me in the gut of stars.
Eternally trying not to fall to the fires below.
Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.Bending Rivers: The Poetry & Stories of David L O’Nan out now!Poetry from David L O’Nan in the Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and WhispersHard 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 WrenThe return & revised version of “New Disease Streets” by David L O’Nan Poetry and stories
There was a time When I had an existence We were the Roses In fields with the butterflies A Masterpiece Manifestations followed by The wilting, just weeds Infestations Butterflies spread across the crispness Of the ground Through it all sticks and the snakes The moments of life Beats your reflections Upon oneself All the hugs in 20 quick seconds All the kisses in a flash of cloud to ground lightning The moments of the attempts play like a 4 hour movie The pills, the Crashing to the floor Revived, prayers you have to rip from the mud. Just to see your reflection After another infestation See yourself in precious waters Pulled petals and thorns scattered In the forms of scrambled tombstone etchings Battles in love, beauty in achievements When you stabbed your self-doubts And you felt fragrant, and you could attract a crowd of dandelions whom thought they were Hollywood. Make the proud moment reflections last longer, God please When I’m holding my babies Not accepting being one of the masses of Roses I feel the drowning of my mind Being held down into another ditch Another infestation Butterflies scurry to a truth A Masterpiece in true waters A welcoming warm stare of the Nymphaea Nelumbo May I feel comfort resting in this blanket of grass Resting under twilight Stars of God Lift me into light I can fully encompass the reflections The last days of diseases that withered me to bone and plastic skin I can see that I like everyone had moments of being a Masterpiece That flew with the butterflies A crowding of love Purging ideas that there were infestations at all, and what was claustrophobia Was just blind tremors And tricks of sin That oozed out the poisons And scooped up, in handfuls and drank in by your own soul When scared and resistant
We speak as if death, as a reflection of shade As we navigate in the circles of sunlight As miracles of breath Miracles of Mother Nature The trees of a Monet painting Have become real We become bearers of our sins To discuss, to confess Confessions to the caverns of bark Eaten away at, We lay in the comfort of cold ground and confess To the lace ripped from the corner of an orange moon The days of strange By the riverfronts Watching little devils form in the ripples of water We met each other As soldiers of war Soldiers of mental scarring We met each other From dust to blood Battle-wound confessions Blood of the dawn Paints the tears to my skin One with my pores
Can you feel the burning? All the reflexes in a burning
Tremor Confessions When we whisper lies to celebrate infamous moments Celebration of ego In radical boredom The moments we walked on the bridges of bone To climb the highest mountain to touch the hands of God Superiority complex, confess That you are lost in a possession of spirit The caverns of bark, to climb through And let the animals, tunnel through Nibbling at the periderm Confess more Were you satisfied with the awakening of madness? As it spread, fires across lakes of thought Confess to the artist that sketches into your brain Confess to the colors that swirl in your mind Greens, browns, grays What shall the Rhytidome be? When confessing to the caverns of bark In a blending of Monet’s Trees