3 poems by David L O’Nan : Chameleon or Stallion, The Blood of the North Star & What is American Freedom?

Chameleon or Stallion

Can you understand this man?

With his fleeting moods
In ambient funeral walks
He appears to look deathly similar to Charles de Gaulle

And everyone loved him when he was the stronghold
He could fight the brawn of Satan,
and come out sleek and dressed royally.

Everyone understood when he would run
Away in prayers, in silence, in the feathery leaves -
emerging himself in
Like a newborn infant attached to a bosom,
There isn't anymore disconnect  -
between what is love, and what is impure.

When he was the stallion,
the spectators gazed at his speed
His energy, his strength, his Olympic breed,
His champion mind.

He is the art over our stairways
Trying to hold these angry voices together
And salvage an ill foundation
He is now our Claude Monet.

We begin to evolve
by his energy and his silence
In ourselves,
Whether chameleon or stallion.

The Blood of the North Star

My mind meandered on the North Star
Very early this morning
I was attached to the Earth
Soul to sores, limbs to trees
the scum of the dew to freedom
From thee freedom back to the scum.

The scene is a narcotic dream
I'm the one laying pure in the cryptic lagoon
Water that swims with sawdust
Ripples that spreads to the end -
of a flamed falling rainbow
My hands tied together,
bound to the Earth.

My mind is shaking
Shake off the leash, You must shake!
shake!
Let me be free,
You cemetery, you coffin!
Can I breathe the stains of the sunshine,
without choking on its rays?

Are there any more castaways -
falling into these crimson waves, like I?
Are there any unknown Gods,
yet to be released into ridicule, as I?
That doesn't run,
When I sink in the claws of my stare
That doesn't twitch,
When energizing in my palms.

That live much more fluid than I?

That North Star doesn't plead for mercy
She just shines like the sensational
I just shine like sand.

What is American Freedom?

Crawling over your burns
Pretending I am sympathy
You've trampled my soldiers
You've scarred my skin
Soul juice stays liquified,
but my eyes are on fire
They hide

Under your foot
is an Earth enriched with lies
Gorging my body through hypnotizing minds
That cry
That shoots the dreamers like a criminal fly.

So blind
So blind
So blind  We
Strike!

Trampling our soldiers
Scarring their skin
They beat the drums
Triumphant in sins
Triumphant in praise
Lord has eyes for the jealous and the dazed.

Can we forgive freedom
When freedom has been a long murdering bend?

We've been sewing our sins
The holocaust in the desert sands
Trampling more soldiers
blood on all hands
Showing them scars where bullets cinched.

Then sleep inside of muscle
Sedating us to the permanent silence.

That no one wins
That no one will conquer
No one wins
Tears among men
American freedom
Lives in a closed fist.

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios:  David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan


Paisleys, et cetera by David L O’Nan (poem, poetry, writing)

Sunset, Sunrise, Sky, Orange Sky, Clouds
Paisleys, et cetera

From a nest of crows lay a red robin
That we saw develop from an amber to a passion.
A spirit animal that flies free from the misery
Swimming in the sky vertically
From backwards to frontwards,
Curving with ease

In the sunsets of Purple and Pink
From Ice Blue to the Orange Papaya whip
Swiftly,
wings threading the needle of the seas
Marveling in Springtime heavens
Only to depress in your cup nest covered by January frost.

Bind your ribbons to an ironclad bend
resting your tarsus in the blanket of snow,
and dream with your culmen, 
Drinking in the rewards of the March air,
only shades are left to conquer.


Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios:  David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

You Are a Fading Bruise Empire by David L O’Nan (poem, poetry, writings)

You Are a Fading Bruise Empire

You are a fading bruise empire.
Fading slowly,
You were once a hematoma,
resting in the subcutaneous tissue -
Skin blinded into disease.
Love is bound by control.

Words that hurt, 
that burn the heart like a cattle prod.

She was made to love you, 
and all she gave you were the insults,
lesions covering the beauty of your mind.

Social hidings,
The mysteries of trusting
You had guilt, shame, ghosts of self -
that formed like an empire across your starving heart.

One kiss from the sin of black magic
Leading from one control in one hand 
to switch to the mastermind and their constraint.

Casting the rainbow of colours over your lost hope.
You peek into your reflection,
in those waters that you were always frightened by.

Instead of seeing the glass floating in dark shadows,
leaving the stamp of tension.
You now own the freedom of bleeding, tears,
the emotions of being human.

Monsters fade back to stems

Oh, to see a fading of corruptive bruises...

Such a beautiful, natural high to breathe the oxygen -
of your own reborn Empire.
And support is there in the crystals of light,
that never could blandish in the cult of bruising.

Wolfpack Contributor EIC Bios:  David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan

poem has previously been published in Rhythm & Bone Press offshoot Dark Marrow 

Several Poems by David L O’Nan including “Wrestling the Air” “the Withering Alice” “Broken Ballets in Haunting Gardens” & more

(c) David L O’Nan
Wrestling the Air

In the pit of my stomach
The devil lives in there
with a barbiturate honor system
A bipolar at bed-rest
the schism of our chords.

I am the constant fire
An arson in my heart
A glowing through my skin
Pale hands and a drowning glow to my face
We all fall like feathers, and
lead to a poisonous bite.

Phantoms in flames
an exaggerated fright,
Respect when feared
bricked out the wind to keep me from spreading.

Like the churning magma under all our feet
During neurosis, we shake these windows
From glass down to sugar
these infections run deep
The spells of a marginal magician.

Now, we all are burning the flea circus
and watching them scream
Watch them Wrestle the air,
and just try to clip the wings of the disease.

The Withering Alice

There is the ancient tale that withers,
like that suspended rope.
From the infinite rainstorm above
bedroom ceilings
tapping tiny poisons on the rooftops,
Scratching at the walls,
When the search for the handsome and kind -
loses its adhesive grip.

In Alice's vision,
The clouds are thundering
Digested by the mud
The spiritual daughter to the grim night.

To the freeze, she is the sting
The stinging through the chest
That rope swings and continues to break
the skeletons stick to her dark escape
We are chanting for her victory
We are trying to repair the rope, 
We are screaming at the beast, and
daring the temptation to a shame.

We long to watch her dance for the mirror again
We'd love for her to be free
Please not like this,
A hissing presence fades through her skin, and
the sour taste of hell tries to intervene.

Like a cancer, the ropes begin to mutate
and spreads across the room.
In her eyes,
we try to conjure out the illness
In her eyes,
we glance at the knot's reflection
In her eyes,
we see the flesh and bones of the withering Alice.

Touch her hand softly and see
If the grip still has the power of
The power of the disease.

Died Inside of a Liquor Store

Your husbands, just like your father
Both with failed livers
Died inside of the liquor store
Staring into Jim Beam's eyes as they slid -
face-first to the concrete floor.

In a quizzical call to heaven
the pathetic attempts to scrape them off the floors - 
like fried eggs from a skillet
The whole room is filling with vertigo vapors

And the light turns to black
and the bottles clank together
like a beast is shaking the store from the ground
these fragile trembling hands
Fall
and the nail hammered through them
We watched their souls
and we revisit them -
in our recordings of the 1970's footage,
that plays skips and static in our brains
those grainy faced robbers in Christmas Morning snow.

Ripping at the cartoon wrapping paper
the presents for you,  the ugly clown banks
The presents for them,  the shiny new bottles.

5:30 A.M.

The sunshine melts around the corners of curtains, 
I feel every bit of a fuzzy shoegaze guitar song.
Malaise my head to calmness.
You are already out there flirting with 4 leaf clovers,
as always.

I am here repurposing poisons to bring me to surrender
to a disease, to the machetes, to my heart
to resurrect back to a full puzzle.
Whispering in all the burns,
and smoothing out the scars

I feel that the morning is cluttered
and the sickness is the ugliest
When you put on the makeup,
in that compact mirror.

And our day begins with a damp searching inside.

Broken Ballets in Haunting Gardens

If my feet fail to move
when debris is flying
and my balance is no longer smooth
I'm feverish from the last days of Cumae.

Separation from the vain,
the cult of power becomes recessive
this will not stop the birds in flight
Over the vines of my haunting gardens.

Seeds begin sinking,
rain replenishing only roots of trees
weeds become infections
and I am those falling mountains,
that erect this peaceful town.

The winds begin howling
Quiet, fingers to mouth
and then the howling of a dying anger
My blue skies are slowly progressing diseases
Hopeless like my Mother's eyes.

Exaggerated loves become destructive
blood is weeping in my skin
as it all begins in a childhood fading
even now i'm gray
splitting walls inside my head
words like ballets can be.

What always will stand in the fogging,
leads us as our crutches
The dominance of light
and the destructive swarm of all the clouding. 


Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack Pt 1: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan




5 poems by David L O’Nan : “Wicked Witch Fossils” “A Crosswind””There Have Been Strange Men Coming Down Here” “Tyre” “Old Oranges in Grandpa’s Graveyard”

Orange, Rotten Fruit, Rotten Fruit
Old Oranges in Grandpa's Graveyard

Across that busy river,
rests my grandpa and my grandma
And my other grandma, Diana
In sorrows, I think of his humor
In laughter, I think of his calmness
In anger, I think of his abuse
his only tumor
in silence, I think about his wisdom and bravery.

All the California shells covering the dirty grass
You can hear the belly-growl from the dead fishermen,
the ghosts of all the nightcrawlers whom,
met their fate in the San Gabriel River.

Walking in memories,
I begin to see grey orange after grey orange
and over the cemetery of a crisping wind
Unusual to this time of year, 
a sad assortment of thrushes and crows
they peck at the seeds from the dead oranges.

I feel foggy in my brain,
a little bit lost on the coast
a gargled drowning sound,
Icicles don't usually form on the pupils,
in California
I wished for the sands to return to my carousel beachfront

A line of oranges,  some green, mostly grey
The pathway between my feet and grandpa's grave
About 4 coppered tombstones away,
I see a slick bluesman pick up some of the old oranges
and place them in a green sack,
then he vanishes into a casino colored sunset.

That sunset howls
It murmurs out the blues
The Gulf of Mexico moonshiners applaud
and the sugar sweetness returns to the oranges

Grandpa is dancing again with all the resurrected women -
from a 1958 dancehall.

Wicked Witch Fossils

It was the night on the fairytale beach
The sick little seahorses collected
by the fiends, and through our walks,
like a thunderclap over the zoo.

We become a frightened twig
floating in a scurry
our minds can be abandoned
and try not to evaporate
like the shine off of the wicked witch fossils
in the cavern's tongue.

The dirt and the fizz
On celestial grounds
Are now just a Sleeping Beauty hospital
apple cores
smashed to ruins
and little ants are never loyal
they just go from one sugar to the next
even when it is poison disguised.

A Crosswind

She comes to bed
with hardened concrete skin
She hides the smoothness
from the talking dolls
they come around
when the truck is gone. 
They come around
with keys to the lock.

We meet up
to an impossible conversation
in a bleached spit of a dining room
Where red wine spills,
while i'm at work
And everything intermingles with
all the broken glass

We meet up to a burn-dry kiss
on a goodbye
that lips up your morning breath
before playing mistress for a prowler
with hungry blood.

I never knew it would be so tough
to repair this bridge with bandages
preserving decay on imperfections 
Sleeping alone on lamenting crosswind.

There Have Been Strange Men Coming Down Here

The bugs on windowsills
like a little camera,
the skirts lay dirty across the basement
loose chess pieces
after madness ended the game.

I wear this glove of a ghost over my skin
The soul still preaches out cynical waves
the bars on the windows
as cold as the haughty icing that caresses its pane.
while the pain is grenades during a beautiful hymn.

Play bashful to the soultakers
bless me with the blankets
not the smothering ones
bless me with the cradling 
and visions of the temple.

Don't leave me prone to the majestic
I want the sour to be removed
and the spell crippled away by Jesus Christ
and Violas playing for me forever
let me forget that there have been

Strange Men coming down here.

Minutes after my shadows dissolved with the night.

Tyre

Sun-bleached crucifixes
pawned
from paper skin hands
that lay all the cuts
Our reward for seeking treasures of voices
the word in Olive desert wash.

The soulmates of greats
in Phoenician unity
the heart shapes the Mediterranean 
from the island, blood breathes the holy
and the trash bangs against the breeze

It was a buzzin' city
Which made some forget Jerusalem
We married the rocks up to look identical
Eternally like twins in one soul,
we are cursed in one kiss, it is reversed.

The kings gather in prosperity
in the wealth from trading
the ruins are unspoken
and we sail into the curtain of the coast,
realizing the currents feel the death the most.

Feel me through my hands
my beating clashing ocean heart
pour me in with your thirst,
drink in all that has been existence.

Suddenly, we are lost in time
The entire time.


 Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack Pt 1: David L O’Nan & HilLesha O’Nan