“Roman Candles” inspired by Elliott Smith online blog Anthology

(c) Joker Little

Tincture of Opium by David L O’Nan

A  saddle strapped and swallow down the tincture.
Assimilation over these years worth of crashes to curves of corners.

It is much heavier than before
It is much heavier than before
I begin to resemble a caricature of a zombie-
drawn by the superficial you.

Under a slightly warm night sky, barely alive
I was dreaming of you dancing on unbroken bottles.
Then again, they break again, and you're always surprised.

Much heavier than before is the cutting
Much heavier than before is the failing
I watch you fainting out a smile while bleeding away onto the floor.
I watch you believing in which heaven you have restored for this day.

The evolution of the tincture.
What is willing and what is wading
You’ve tried to prove yourself almighty.  But 

It is much heavier than before
It is much much more heavier than before
Wishing I was inside that mind with you.


Poems about Elliott from Afta Gley

Untitled

hillbasement 
musician, from your 
soughtfor transition,
your oblivion ambition, 
may you never, never
land


October 21, 2022

dear Mr. Smith, twelve
years ago I was too sad
to go to work, but

decided to work 
through the depression. there
by the Dumpster: a cat.

who knows? maybe you
guided your namesake to me.
so very grateful 

TWO FROM FOUR DAYS AGO

lighting a candle 
for 34 minutes, youre 
missing Elliott 

nineteen years ago 
I knew everything else 
meant nothing to me 

Elliott Smith waltzed 
with his metaphors, partnered
by no one at all 


(C) IM-JESS ON DEVIANTART

SO UGLY BEFORE by Lynn Elliott

A great man once proclaimed
He was damaged bad at best
In my heart of hearts
To know him I feel blessed

There was beauty, truth and honor
In his troubled soul
People clammered just to touch him
and it took it's toll

I see him in the morning
As the sky is turning blue 
I feel him in the stillest night
Sometimes as if on cue

I mourn his loss quite often
Celebrate him even more
For bringing out the beauty
In what was so ugly before.

XO. Lynn Elliott

Unknown name poem by Lynn Elliott

It's so easy living in the past 
Sleep walking through each day
Living where I saw you last
Pretending I'm okay

XO Lynn Elliott

My Elliott Smith story is a little different
I broke my neck and suffered a traumatic brain injury water skiing.  For 5 yrs I was pretty much a zombie.  The only thing I could feel was fear.  I'm not a fearful person at all but that's how all tbi ppl feel
I was listening to everything's OK by Elliott
and it made me feel safe.   It was the beginning of my recovery.  I listened to Elliott almost every hour of every day.  
It inspired me to start writing songs and poetry, which really sped up my recovery even more.  I'll never be like I was before but my injury stimulated my drive to write and share what I write.  So I was in my 50s when I started.

My bio

I rescue special needs dogs.  I did extreme sports most of my life.  Surfing, skiing. diving, soccer, tennis, gymnastics, etc. I worked for the airlines so I did a fair amount of traveling.  I'm an outdoorsy person.  Elliott Smith is more than a great musician to me.  He is my safe place.




Ripples by Khadeja Ali

inspired by ‘Everything Means Nothing to Me”

days start and end in blank white and solid black
shapes that will not harmonize rigidly exist in my eyes
when finally touching, the sharp lipped edges cut 
and me, wanting so badly for lines blurring, insides blending
But there is no chance of grey. No body electricity to make it work.

was I once a kaleidoscope of magnetic color
shuddering with vibrating life, dancing constantly? I think so
if not singing, was I humming to natural silence?
now is there a piercing screech in my ear, or nothing
No ears-plugging or opening my mouth anymore. Frozen.

lying down is not an option; when did I start standing?
since when can I not move? This is not me. Is it? walking I was
but stiffly erect and standing at once. When started my movement’s death?
my mind’s edges are so sharp, but inside empty as air
Squinting hard. There’s nothing to see.

my energy; drained by a taunting echo of everything
wavering glass below me reflects my iron face
So glorious am I, yet—I’m nothing to me.

“Junkyard Full of False Starts” by Jennifer Patino

I'll refrain
from the
'gone too soon'
sentiments       Instead,
I'll boast of your intellect

There's a way back to blue
& to you, but we couldn't
remind you in time

& wasn't that you,
that one time, pounding
your chest
like a barbarian?

You couldn't speak
truthfully
to people
without scaring them

I know, I know, I know,
the burdens
you tore from
your aching shoulders

I know, I know, I know
how terrified you were
of even the vague idea
of growing older

You were only one, ever one,
little inside, unnamed,
but mighty            Someone
we'll think of
while
staring at flames,
hearing your phantom drunken
crooning on repeat,
when we're tired
of fighting,
or just tired
of the taste of the
city streets
where your ghost
lingers on
beneath neon lights
& in the silhouette soul
of every
ragged musician
in a beanie
we happen to meet

I'll say it, I'll pray it,

               RIP

Little Mr. Socialite by David L O’Nan

We’ve all been strapped to and strapped by the spellbinder
He walks up to you and expects you to drop the ceiling down to become his platform for a show.
Handed the keys, by osmosis you become a local legend.  

To the city that continues to decay, 
there is only so much here to reel in.
The cocaine socialites keep barking for you to leave their hipster colonies.
Fuck you!  Fuck You!  Fuck You!  
You can’t talk sense to the overconfident.

They want the world, and they want the life.
They want the respect,  Rifles and knives. 
They want to joke and manifest a spiritual world in which they are absorbed of their behavior.

Hell to the homeless,  hell to the mental health
“I don’t care about your personal lives”  I care about my termination.
Your words will never get past these windows because I’ll just run out
And bark out orders like a witch in a bad dream.
Blah…blah…blah    Fuck You!   Fuck You!   Fuck You!   You can’t talk about our prince and princesses
That push the drugs and sex behind bars and counters that blow up this neighborhood.

You will vanish as soon as you appear.  
Hours later you’re in another chessgame.  You’re in another straight line socialite walk.
From one blink to the next you’re game changes.  Drawn to your fuckin’ pawn.

He is in charge of our children.    Teach them well.  
Teach that future well.
Afraid of a soured reputation.   
Bullying has never left your privileged brain.
And your story will never be told as long as the socialite holds the powder and the power.

Roman Candles by David L O'Nan

I’m feeling tricked in this cold October rain
The entire town are shooting Roman Candles in masses
Hypnotized in another wired dream.
Nauseated and feeling blind, worthless 
The rain burns the cuts on the skin.  
The friction drowns me with the idiots.
I’ve never felt this tired.   I’ve never heard this much screaming.
The Roman Candles, Firecrackers, the Halloween monsters.
The shoes are beginning to sour.
The red just keeps getting darker, yet feeling thinner 
The slitting and sitting with the rattle again
Have I ever been real?   

The Kill of the Darlings by David L O'Nan

Another abused evening.  Copper skied and bloodshot eyes.
The kill of the darlings reads on a flashing screen.
I was introduced to the spilling and polishing of my sweat to the sheets.
It must be raining,  raining in my death.

I’ve been waiting, smelly and divided
On  a pitch black night with coal mine moons. 
I’ve been asked inside to feed the tiger.
The locomotives keep moving slower through the brain, through the cast.
Through the fade,  they praise the ugliest ghost after all.

Becoming so angry by medicine and shiver out new fears.
I wait and wait and wait. Just knowing you have his name tattooed in your blood.
I wait for you on the inlay filling of broken sidewalks that have survived the earthquake.
I wait for you to come home with him.
To bust him with this chain or break a bottle over his skull.

Yet, I should realize you’ve the not caring if I ever lived or died.
Adaptation, realization  and broken, a crinkled tarot card.
I’ve been calling another busy signal suicide hotline.

Winnemucca by David L O'Nan

Days of being dazed, drugged, and dangerous
Now in Winnemucca waiting for a new train.
To rescue me from the lights of the cities to the deserts to thaw.
Not feeling the jazzy hope that all these horns convey.

I’ve been travelling like it is a system wondering 
If the honey was ever laced, were your smiles ever more than pain.
You played beautifully being beautiful and being muddled at the same time.
You played beautifully being heartbroken and wearing a new ring from another lame maniac.

Wafflin’ drunk on something, traintracks shaking.
Winnemucca gives me the eye of some crook.
I’m asking for tickets, asking for wishes, I’m asking for some powerful graveyard dirt.
I’m washing my hands of you since yours are covered in the outlines of sweat from the burns.

You’ve been a cough, to send away the clouds
You’ve been a leap,  through the meek and the lack of sound.
You’ve been admired, but admiration wasn’t enough. 
You’ve been dashing,  dashing straight into the wreck.
And I will fall and eventually so will you.

I may fall sooner, but tomorrow is a full moon.
I could still be in Winnemucca, I could be dead, 
or banging on pots in the streets of Chicago.
You could still be married to the errors,  
you could be flooded out of house and home.
Digesting more fertile dirt.

Catharsis (collaboration poem K Weber & David L O'Nan)
also part of the Empath Dies in the End series

1. (David L O'Nan)

I was in the process of purging the ideas of you
The wrens, the beetles, and the crabs we’ve been energized by
On days of smiles.  The parks, the oceans, 
the imperfect apartment ceilings.

In the middle of a catharsis
I was fast to the falling down the mountainous zoo.
In the deluge of rain I remember smashing against your dress.
Umbrellas breaking, wind straining, yet in the distance we see a sunset.

Now I’m wondering are you ever really leaving me?
Will we meet again in this organic hex that has been swirling
From the ground to the trees.
To the shearing of my humility, my impulses are pulling with each inhalation.

With palms on head, a robin stares at me from the ground.  
Right against my boot it seems not fear my 50 foot shadow.
Just searching for some worms through the puddles we reflect in.

2. (K Weber)

Winged leaves breathe
Between fingers of ashen
Branches where birds’
songs rest.  The pulse
of a rain-tapped dusk
counts down the last
snippet of sun. Light
gets drowsy as windows
on one wall yawn
to a close.

Red Ant. Black Ant....The Stars (collaboration poem with Jennifer Patino and David L O'Nan

1. (Jennifer Patino)
They spoke of interior silence.
A way to navigate cacophony
with a smile on your face.
These forced emotions, pulled
to the surface, daisies squeezed out from beneath the grime
of disconnect.

One has to die to hear advice better. A portion of the self must be sacrificed to allow change to claim new roots. I think I'll bloom in winter. Switch the expected at the last moment so the patient ones can be satisfied. Those drought souls have waited for a resurrection long enough. They will have their day safe from the blinding sun. They will feel rain on new skin and be quenched.


2. (David L O'Nan)


I’ve been searching for your footprints all over the place.
The joke is only red ants meeting black ants on my shoelaces.
I’m disgusted I can’t past this place.  Scared to walk out to new noise.
I’ve feigned happiness and I’ve dreamt up new stars.
I’ve been alone and hid my aches away. 
The nightmares absorb in the pillows, as long as I stay hid.
In the shade.  I got to my tree.   
And I try to remember the invisible me.

I know you’ve been waiting for me to at least show a hello
I can’t keep the creatures inside and the rush becomes a roar
And the hush becomes hypnotic and 
my window becomes the source
for the entertaining eye.   
So go on,  and move on with what you want.
The devil is dancing and waiting for your soul.
You know you want love, but this will just be another gaslighting poem.

The lake, the flowers, the light.    Go the distance and find what’s right.

I  met you in a trance.   I was scrawny and I was a mess.
I thought I was becoming famous. And you thought you’d be the root.
I would grow from you and learn to be a jolly shine under  your foot.
It’s a shame I only can understand what is anger, snark and shame.
If I could cure myself, I would try to shave away your pain.
The scene won’t have any of it.

The Dark Aesthetic/Wives in the White Light by Jess Levens and David L O'Nan

1. (Jess Levens)

The sky is quintessential October—
wet without rain; dusk in daylight, blurring
any distant thing. Blurring what is real.
Desaturated evergreens birth out

dead leaves in every citrus shade, plus
plum and pear and red delicious. They
clatter down, loudly in the quiet fog.
The chill bites flirtatiously, without pain.

Outside my window, a lone coywolf in 
the farmer’s clearing stares back at me through
this dark aesthetic—howling into my
home; into my head—barking out malice.  


2  (David L O'Nan)


So you keep your wives in the White Light
And the mass is enchanted that you bring
The entertainment and the insanity from the mistakes.
Like paper we’ll fly with the crisping leaves.  
Some cut just like that paper, 
some just itch as the wind bites down on the skin.

The wives you hide in white light
Scurry like a squirrel trying to hide a direct hit. 
From grey to brown to orange to green trees-
that squirrels will scurry from the pain.
So slip outside of your skin,  
Watch yourself in the mirror with another angry grin.
Revenge glowing in your eye.  
And the harm you want is the harm that’ll cause you to die.

There are wires just falling everywhere…the storms are brewing
And the we all become impaired.  
Hiding your wives in the white light behind the shed.
Are they in blinking blue and red lights ripe for the restoration.  
They are just waiting for you to fall asleep and give up, 
in your irate dream.

Continue to pour yourself that drink.    
Continue to pour yourself that wolf’s howl.
Continue to transition from the rake to the shave.  
Repair is on the way. 
But the bedpans and the creatures inside may be the cream, 
and your body may just be the trough.
The Wives in white light are just looking for you to break.   
The narcissism will eventually implode
And the darkness will be decorous with light as they take you aside.  

(c) Dribble from DeviantArt

Bled Out For Liberty (collaboration poem Giulio Magrini & David L O’Nan

1 (Giulio Magrini)

The younger ones look at us and smirk…
We remember the smiling of our youth
Furtive… covert… and shrouded

Those memoirs are today’s mystery of youth
And live behind the curtains of our past 
They are cognitions divorced in time but parallel confidence 
What is the necessity of covert masks in the present
And our frustrated guilty memories? 

2 (David L O'Nan)

I've began to feel afraid.  
that i've bled out for liberty from my imagination- 
that was never brave.
The loveliness just disappears. 
Morning whispers engulfed in last night's tears.

I was concentrating too much on the lies.
Assuming everything from youth to existing was from the failing eye.
We were watched down on by the lighted figures.
 Not wasted anymore yet cultivate me with all my failures until I die. 

You're private and play hide away.
You're intellectual and passing around the plate
Damn, i'm still living slender with my fist taped up.
Everything from midnight to morning is just medicine
 just passing through.
I go from I love you to i'm sorry i've been holy for you.

Maybe my mind has bled out only lies.
And my exit is the last leaf on the tree trying to cover up his face. 

https://feversofthemind.com/2022/10/22/current-bio-for-fevers-of-the-minds-david-l-onan-editor-writing-contributor-to-blog/

https://feversofthemind.com/2022/07/13/a-poetry-showcase-from-giulio-magrini/

https://feversofthemind.com/2022/09/14/a-fevers-of-the-mind-quick-9-interview-with-giulio-magrini/

https://feversofthemind.com/2022/09/12/2-wonderful-poems-by-jennifer-patino-inspired-by-plath-and-sexton/

https://feversofthemind.com/2022/09/07/a-poetry-showcase-from-jess-levens/ 

https://feversofthemind.com/2022/09/30/a-fevers-of-the-mind-quick-9-interview-with-jess-levens/

https://feversofthemind.com/2022/05/25/poetry-showcase-from-k-weber/

2 wonderful poems by Jennifer Patino inspired by Plath and Sexton

“Anne, I understand”

1.

It's one of those things. We all go through them.
Our little sufferings. We all have our own
little sufferings.

How many children did you bring? Up-swing.
How was your upbringing? Womanhood
is synonymous with duty.

Oh, I absolutely      wanted you here. You complete
the room. Wear green. Blue. No black. No doom
or gloom. And where's your other better half? Your groom?


2.

They asked me these questions in a different time. They
asked me them on a different day. You changed it all for us.
You showed the suppressed female another way.

You made us see right through them. Their transparency.
You wouldn't let them hide. You ripped rubber gloves off.
Dug right in. Your voice etched onto vinyl records is now therapy.

Thank you. For the attitude. Thank you. For acknowledgment
of every shade of moon and mood. Thank you for peach lipstick,
and jealousy, and pyrotechnic poems, and accusing eyes.

3.

I imagine it was hard at the end. Harder still, in the moments
you were sure it was the end and it wasn't. You kept pounding along
on a typewriter, on a wooden door, dry skin cracking in winter, bloody knuckled.

I can imagine a smoke filled room with you. You are the smoke. You
blend into the wallpaper because our host says it's vintage. You make
jokes and I'm your ventriloquist's dummy speaking in your voice.

I have no choice. You felt that too. You over-explained yourself. The worst
and best and gross and beautiful parts of yourself. Your books line the shelf
in the hospital, where I'm surprised you're not banned. “Anne, I understand.”

Sylvia's Medicine

this medicine // laced with dreams of dying //
elderberry mash // melts quickly on a raspberry
tongue //           sylvia left a message //
she is // the entire town’s favorite reminder //
she is // often stuck in my throat when I ponder
goodness //      swallow medicine // like
pumpkin seeds // teeth breaking on the outer
shell //           sylvia says I need to get out more //
but this medicine // makes greens appear blue //
turns them electric // makes red appear where none
should be //       “sylvia’s bleeding”   // she doesn’t notice
the jagged shell // embedded // in her pomegranate foot
this medicine // wakes me up fifteen minutes before //
the alarm clock curses // makes the sun catcher prisms
dancing on the creamed walls look magnified // magnificent
sylvia never cries // she let me // put this medicine //
on all her beach wounds //        I’m different //
I cry as she hands me // this bag // of this medicine //
she’s different            //         she lets me 

Poetry: This Place is a Sorry Excuse For a Hell by Jennifer Patino 

Poetry: Angel Light by Jennifer Patino 

Poetry: It Starts by Jennifer Patino 

New Poem “Gutter Girls” by Jennifer Patino 

Audrey Hepburn Challenge: Some Things A Lady Just Wears Well by Jennifer Patino 

 Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Jennifer Patino 

 



Bare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle

Cover photo by Paul Brookes of Wombwell

Bare Bones Writings is an extension of http://www.Feversofthemind.com . Themes we are Looking for Poetry/prose/articles/other styles of writing are for Adhd Awareness, Mental Health, Anxiety, Culture, History, Social Justice, LGBTQ Matters/Pride, Love, Poem series, sonnets, physical health, pandemic themes, Trauma, Retro/pop culture, inspired by music/songwriters, inspired by classic & current writers, frustrations. Artwork. Music, Poetry, Book reviews.

Issue 1 includes tributes to poets/writers that contributed to Fevers of the Mind in the past including Kari Ann Flickinger, Scott Christopher Beebe & Dai Fry.

A Fevers of the Mind Musician Spotlight on the albums of Marissa Nadler.

Short Interviews from the Quick-9 interview series with Khalisa Rae, Ron Sexsmith, & Shaindel Beers.

Poetry/Writings from Kari Ann Flickinger, Dai Fry, Scott Christopher Beebe, Paul Brookes, Bill Abney, Ankh Spice, David L O’Nan, Robert Frede Kenter (with poems about Lou Reed), Glenn Barker, Rc deWinter, K Weber, Robin McNamara, Elizabeth Cusack, an art/poetry collaboration between Lia Brooks & Phil Wood, the first 5 poems from Hiraeth Series by Kushal Poddar, Barney Ashton-Bullock, Spriha Kant, Jennifer Patino (with a poem inspired by Audrey Hepburn) and artwork by Maggs Vibo, Matthew M C Smith, HilLesha O’Nan, Lily Maureen O’Nan, Ken Benes, Jessica Weyer Bentley, R.D. Johnson, Ojo Victoria Ilemobayo, Norb Aikin, Andrew Darlington, Liam Flanagan, Christina Strigas, Lorraine Caputo, Conny Borgelioen, Adrian Ernesto Cepeda, Colin Dardis, Petar Penda, Helen Openshaw, Matthew Freeman, Christian Garduno, Eileen Carney Hulme, Colin James, Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal, Marisa Silva-Dunbar, Kate Garrett, A.R. Salandy, John Chinaka Onyeche, Doryn Herbst

Links:

https://tinyurl.com/ypax2vte United States

https://tinyurl.com/54datkad Canada

https://tinyurl.com/mt2h72aj Australia

https://tinyurl.com/ye5mvrfh India

https://tinyurl.com/mvcuxe8c U.K.

https://tinyurl.com/54sjsnxv Spain

https://tinyurl.com/zesshx9a France

https://tinyurl.com/28h47hdd Italy

https://tinyurl.com/4a8ta8f5 Mexico

https://tinyurl.com/mrya4uww Japan

https://tinyurl.com/yvuz8thd Netherlands

https://tinyurl.com/y65mt5c3 Poland

https://tinyurl.com/5ee9dh3b Turkey

https://tinyurl.com/2v26mwuj Sweden

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

Poetry: This Place is a Sorry Excuse For a Hell by Jennifer Patino

This Place is a Sorry Excuse For a Hell

guts roiling in anticipation
for take-off          emptiness
should be guttural    no good
until a space is all hollowed
out

cut up like poetry     arms
holding a girl together /
make her sick so you can
take care of her

all-in if it weren’t for
circumstances     slow dances
in the snow       worry patrol
beautiful girls who don’t
believe it      danger zones
erogenous

woke up from a nightmare
with bloodstained eyes,
tear-crusted sight, lied
about the meaning of it
because reality means
I’m an awful girl

calming the flare
with gasoline soaked
food, dishrags, films
in Spanish, & a flipbook
of Basquiat’s works

this trailer smells
like cat urine which is
really meth, which is really
not too far off from
the familiarity of home

rub me in down pillows
so roses bloom on my skin /
I’m allergic & crave suffering /
your saliva like ointment
drying in the February sun

give me your best murder glare
take me to the swankiest
hole in the wall
count shell casings to fall asleep

pull over so I can throw up,
I see the worst of our culture
in the swirls      I wish it were
the late 80s & I could subsist
on Camel cigarettes & iceberg
lettuce    but I’d be older
acquiring wisdom from street
graffiti

we missed every shot we tried to take
& the holes in my heart leak
a good story / I’ll write it in my
own blood after they rob me
of everything

I’ll feel your finger
in my throat every time
I gag & be on my merry way

Bio: Jennifer Patino is an Ojibwe poet from Detroit, Michigan currently residing in Las Vegas, Nevada. She lives for books and film. She has had work featured in Door is A Jar, Punk Noir Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, Free Verse Revolution Lit, and elsewhere. She blogs at www.thistlethoughts.com

Poetry: Angel Light by Jennifer Patino

Angel Light

My grandmother's ghost
illuminates my angel touch lamp
& I know I'll never stop writing
about ghosts for as long
as I'm not one, for as long
as life says I can

Even then, someone will
write automatically
one day
& it will be me, beyond
the beyond, & a thought of me
might make something
fall from an earth bound wall

As I write this
the world is tumbling down,
literally, a map tacked to my wall
slowly wilts to the ground,
& I think of Poltergeist,
but only the movie, for I'm sure
this minor, jarring catastrophe
is no angry paranormal entity,
but indeed humidity,
for this summer, like all others,
is sweltering

& maybe, I've accidentally
performed a conjuring
by playing my grandmother's music
too loudly to drown out
the spirits of memory
plaguing me,

& maybe this is
the light's way
of purging me
from all the darkness
put on me,
& any mortal calamity
is only instilled paranoia from the TV

People are scarier than those
not living, the undead aid the most
in reliving, & no one is giving
up, commending, ascending,

& no unexplained phenomena can scare me quite like
a week long binge of insomnia,
when all my ghosts & demons appear
& everything blends
into all that I fear

I've doused this low bulb
with my mind, all spectres
return to the shadows,
their prophetic presence
& steely secrets, deep inside me
where no one can find

Bio: Jennifer Patino is an Ojibwe poet from Detroit, Michigan currently residing in Las Vegas, Nevada. She lives for books and film. She has had work featured in Door is A Jar, Punk Noir Magazine, The Chamber Magazine, Free Verse Revolution Lit, and elsewhere. She blogs at www.thistlethoughts.com