Poseurs with Precision, The Love and Pain & The Glass I Live Inside Of by David L O’Nan (poetry & writings)

Poseurs with Precision

When it is time to save the night,
You hide in your gatherings of sacred stones, In the buildings to talk to him.
but you have no battleplan.
Paper religions,
Not willing to sacrifice yourself to poverty.
Not willing to sweep the dying humanity up, And protect them with the heart and breasts.

The cowardly talk,
And they can sound so fluid with some bravado.
Breaking inside,
You can fight the weak, and tell them to join the inferno. The waves of the sick are among you,
While you listen to Satan’s whispers from the television screen. And you leave the malnourished weak-boned, starving, and praying to the one thought you can’t complete yourself. You’re one of the poseurs with precision.

The Love and Pain

The mistakes lead to our wars
The failure of the fire
I can taste the naive
The pleasures of the mad wind rip through the tobacco

While dreaming of giants –
Stretched across the fields
Lips sweating from the sun Turn our bodies into quilts Stitching our skin to the dirt.

The billboards are blank with bullet-holes
The perfection of the sting – Is the poison that moves swiftly
When dodging the drum from one ear to the other
I can’t escape the rub of the hook Nothing like exotic skies.

However, ripped to the crooked
Lifting myself from the pain
The weight of the anchor –
Will not leave my drift afloat to a quivering drowning.

I keep believing the temptation is speaking with clarity
Imitate the storm
The mocking reciprocates The wet will rot, and then it burns Resisting the stress of this wind?
Gamy, dingy looking and left a deprived cactus Malnourished as dead-eyed owls.

Next war
Knowledge
Encourage a revolution to rise
Love and Pain
Will resurrect us to change

The Glass I Live Inside Of

I want you
To shoot me, to cut me
To leave me restless, silent, damp
In faint, poisons to my blood
Convict me from courage

I don’t fear the wars
I don’t fear the gangs
I don’t fear the pending doom
To pretension of my bravery
To be dissected left a twig
A broken stick in the glass I live inside of

There are drugs that attempt –
To tame the wildfires
To calm the anxiety, to wait
Patiently in the madness
They wither, the flocks gather
To close you in
Tease me lame, or ignite me
Into blinding words
The wicked, the rage
Clustered in the loss.
Cradled in my death.

I see it all the time.

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

The Hills Have Blindsides by David L O’Nan (poetry)

The Hills Have Blindsides

A flock of hideous birds float through the wind. I feel these crows in shriveled fur,
Their flight, an old man’s crippled slur.
They congregate together
Cross-eyed and angry
To yell from the diaphragm,
Your rebellion is based on ignorance!

These were feathers from the same war. All brewed up and steamed together, Before peace became a relevant idea.
In caskets, they lay
All purpled – in art
Waiting for someone to dance and sing –
With the bells ringing from the heart

After all the diseases sink in their talons Then gnashing and biting begins.
When the prettiest star waves you in
To meet God or the jealousies of all sins, They roll up those hills to see clarity.
The problem in all the darkness
Is not within your peripheral understanding. The hills have blindsides,
When you’re looking for Jesus
When you’re looking for Jesus

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

Photo by Evan Wise (unsplash)

Also published by Icefloe Press

Let it be Cindy’s Pain, Not Yours by David L O’Nan (poetry)

Let it Be Cindy’s Pain, Not Yours

Cindy shall walk in when you are shaking and queasy,
After your fall of Rome
In a blue skirt, she changes out by the torn curtains. Without care from the peeping Toms
She’s got the eyes of a starving tiger.
And finding yourself in that blood orange revenge As you kiss away the letters to stray hands. She never wears red, but today Her dress is for a wet crimson death.

She will leave you in prayer in the frosty room.
In many hours reading the sadness of Hermann Hesse
She will weave in the stream of lies
The waters that drown the appendages of a once muscular tree.

So Cindy wears the chains.
The Silver pistol earrings
The eclipsing sun can’t hide Rodeo Drive
Where she struts around like a dimestore Bettie Page
She often dreams of her last breath
And she just stares at you like a trapped tiger.
Under some madman’s guidance and brainwashing. You are the one with the inheritance.
The diamonds and bangles, God willing.

The dialysis, the time is coming soon Where is the nurse, to the mystery of men? That runs the house like a tattoo parlor
Is tonight your last night as the hunted?
Let it be Cindy’s Pain, Not yours, not the flowers.

It’ll be hers in this curse
I’ve willed her in these Post-traumatic rebound pastures.

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

Photo by Emma Trevisan

Suicide 2020: In a Shoebox poetry by David L O’Nan (poetry)

The cold floats over my dying energy
Shedding the ghosts from my skin
My breath has left a sticky gloss –
Over the plastic thin shoebox windowpane.
My last breath in the stained carpets of poverty.

The wind tunnels through the apartments
Like a storm, like a voice
That rips through my eardrum
They whisper the suicides to me
Like the embracing kiss of all seven archangels
To greet God in the corner
Behind the burning candles
That attempt to save me

My hands are clammy
And the shadows are already in unison to dance
Dance my freedom away
From this plane
From the rags of this old shoebox The conquering of another peasant.

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

also published on Icefloe Press

photo by Cody Chan

Suicide 2020: A Basket of Fruit by David L O’Nan (poetry)

Let us all, stand by our baskets of fruit
That the rain and sunlight bathed out for us to dine.
I want to leave aside the sidewalks that burn
I want to wash away the pain that lives in my wrinkles.

I want the depressants to live behind the veils
And watch the birds fly from North to South and back again.
I want the suicide to climb back over the fence
While I think about the comfort of skin
While I blanket my mind with the thoughts of sweet breath.

Leave a war-cry
Echo back in the canyons
That I shall never want to see again
Leave the glass bottles on the edge,
To never feel the wind tip them over the ridges.

I want to remain by this fruit basket
To close my eyes
And reunite me with the loves that hold me
In tenderness, they have passed
I feel them again, my tears must obey
I must obey to put those bottles away.

And live for the saccharine.

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

from “New Disease Streets” and also was published online on Icefloe Press