3 poems by David L O’Nan “Immortalized in Dorothy’s Tears” “Precautionary Nightingales” & “Listen to the Bones Breathe”

Staglieno, Cemetery, Genoa, Tombstone

Immortalized in Dorothy’s Tears

Dorothy was the matriarch
She was born into the hells of burning Silver years.
She died in the neon flash
From beautiful tears, 
in grey eyes
The resting pockets of water in puddles.

From the cheek to the middle of her neck
I want to listen to your stories from your recessive brain
I feel dreamlike resting in the fevers of your dominant brain.

Drink your ideas.
Then imposter yourself a genius
I'm immortalized by your falling, 
composing stars of waters and salts.

Precautionary Nightingales

Was I awake to slit the wrists. Only
to finally find charisma?
The shy boy is just some ghost
When dawn flies into your psyche,
the precautionary nightingales know the 
moon from a genuine fake at 6 a.m.
Every eyelash to a broken wing
a crusted, dry, cold flight of winks.

My dreams are an asylum
Not to rest peacefully
The skating on the thin ice that lines my veins
Tremors in the belly
Jump off the arching cliffs of my brain.
The fires from flower to flower
weave me into the flash of foolishness. Unnatural 
I'm an underlying flesh of bruises imperfect and limping.
Transform me into a hungered wolf
with a brittle bite and blood showing from the bone.

In the molasses of snow that chews on the mountains
Watch a radical metamorphosis from
death to the fighter - to the hero
When waking up to the survival of self. The
wind shifts so quickly back and forth in
this cemetery hurricane.
All the flies die off in the swarming over the temptations we breathe.

Listen to the Bones Breathe

You stare like Manson at the clocks
trying to stop time
and just pause amongst the crickets to - listen
to the bones breathe.

You could be nude and in the rapture
the sweating of ice drips from the bridge
you look at the sun deflate into the arms of the valley 
peeling back all the layers to see more bricks inside.

You don't hear laughter or even a hunger pain.
All you feel is the freezing lips of air smack your skin.
Digest my disease,
And listen to the bones breathe.

You don't seem like a savior, or
a pretending lord
you seem like a fading rattlesnake
And we just watch you turn gray and shake
convulse your milk from the pipes in sheets
dance like a ghost, you coward
And then break apart, and erode with a thousand nights
watching over,
and listen to the bones breathe.

You watch my death as attentive, as
you are to a movie.
You love like the fresh fossils
and then creation ceased a million miles before a 
collision of all the heavenly lights.
They sprinkle down and the world said "more please"
You can't please the sadist and the sweet
only a chirp of spirit emits
When you listen to the bones breathe. 

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

The Severance of Your Genius (in Little Papercuts) by David L O’Nan (poetry)

The Severance of Your Genius (In Little Papercuts)
We were cut from the Jerusalem sun.
The pile of rags in the oils of the sand
The Quaking ground lifts up our prisons
And your genius is questioned.
Then cut with precision.
You laid there in a paper trail

We call you the symbol of love
We live in the greed that you spread
The blood from all our hearts
On this poisonous haunted land
Because you fear now –
That maybe your freedom is tainted.

Watching from an exploded mind
The freeways full of a new rage blinding –
From metastatic stars on American car plates
Still swallowing back the aftertaste
The countless years of hate.

An embolism on a prairie field An effigy of supposed heroes peel
We are afraid of an apocalyptic drowning
The sweat pours like the killing clouds
Under the wires, we fall to the pop.

After a soul vaporizes they –
dream up a puppet and call him the new chosen one.
The devil lives inside the passing tornado
In the winds of change, our blood shall run in.

Cutting from the liar’s kiss

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

photo by Ruedi Haberli-JKlip (unsplash)

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!
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

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

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
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

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
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