U.S. Links to paperback & kindle. Please check availability in your Country. Sometimes it takes a few weeks to a couple months to show up in paperback in certain countries. I know in India this is the case. The deluxe edition includes all my poems from the Leonard Cohen anthologies & my poem “Malvina” as well.
*More writing prompts from artwork/photography gathered by Pasithea Chan
*Inspired by Tom Waits poetry will begin
*Inspired by Joni Mitchell poetry will begin
*Inspired by Harlem Renaissance Poetry will begin
*Inspired by Pablo Neruda Poetry will begin
* Inspired by Tom Petty poetry will begin
*I’m going to try and get my book “Cursed Houses” out between mid month and Halloween.
*Working on my wife HilLesha’s book
*Writing new poetry for “The Empath Dies in the End” a themed book collaborated with other writers. When I write something I will send to only the other poet/writer involved. Looking to hopefully put book out in Winter.
*If you still have poetry inspired by any of the following please still send
Bob Dylan
Leonard Cohen
Prince
Nick Cave
Chris Cornell
PJ Harvey
Sylvia Plath
Anne Sexton
Claude Monet (any artwork by him)
Andy Warhol & the Factory including The Velvet Underground & Lou Reed
Instrumental music from Harold Budd
Warren Ellis & the Dirty Three
Audrey Hepburn
Plus on our front page you can find our normal everyday topics to send in for poetry showcases, Quick-9 Interviews for writers/poets/musicians, some book reviews although i’m understaffed on this and can’t take all of them. Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Blog
I’d like to thank James and Cajun Mutt Press for putting out the 1st edition of the book. There are some re-visions/possible artwork changes inside that i’d like to look into. So this will be out of print through them soon. I do have a few copies left if interested email feversofthemind@gmail.com and we could work out a paypal deal possibly. It is nothing that they have done. It is more of me wanting to have more of an idea of a daily what is going on & how to market my book a little differently and with rearranged vision.
He was our pan, he was our pearl
He was our pre-fixer and our path
He was our pandemic, he was our praise
Now they are running my prints
To look for the oils in my skin.
The clusters of pebbles in crimson
To clear waters are now scarring
We scare back to our bacteria grip
With a straight wind quarrel
The composer even trips
Absorb in mentally
Absorb in innocence
Absorb his narcissus esprit
Absorbed in his kill
He was a bruise, he was a brick
He was a bell witch, he was a bite
He was the briar, the broken blade
He was bravery, he had that breath
Bending in to slay us in his plot.
Fingerprints for proof.
Scattered Christmas Garbage
I was sitting alone in a nasty gust of a choking wind,reminiscing on five years since the venom took away my father and left him atrophied, mute, and bent. I wondered if I could ever feel complete like I did before his illness quaking. I’ve been swinging from branch to branch, they are so brittle and this time of year, go from hazel green to a white ashy bone. Scattered on the ground like wrapping paper on Christmas. The leaves are orange, red, yellow, and brown.
Reach under the sink and grab the big black bags. He picks up the paper and everyone laughs. And he doesn’t always hear them, he was always just playing a part. Fathers, Christmas bells, and stones.
And everyone starts chanting out “Songs of Faith, Songs of salvation, Songs of hate, songs of delusions, and songs of materialism and what can you get for me this year with no money and no home”
We go from one tragedy where a disease struck another, and then another and then the bloodline greed gets thicker. And they want the seeds of what he could give them. And he had much less than lint for them to drool over. Yet, they argue, and they steal. They walk up and down the soft hills, and they come out melting like wax and foam.
Then another obstacle. Another payment we can’t make. Bailed out again as we beg to bathe. And we watch the sunrise undress to show us its nocturnal clone. Yet, we still have this, and we still have that. We still have each other until that is challenged by this and that. The greed comes from the most scared cat. And they don’t need it now, but they want it all and don’t even care that we don’t have a home to sit our celebrations inside.
Where is the bloodline, where does it fade in and out. The blood is never fully thickened. It’s pasty, wet, and caked in unraveling crusty dirt. You were one of those 3 that always got the looks, not quite one of theirs and a little unusual. You didn’t celebrate or bring in a blue-collar job to crown your abode. On Christmas mornings you’d just stare off into the distance, hoping that no one was sitting there talking about you or making you feel like a pity show.
Another Christmas comes and another unknown. Every year I’m beginning to feel sicker at the thought of snow. The cheers and laughter are nothing but a cage. And I must continue to pray that there is someone to pray to. So, I can celebrate breaking out of this zoo. And spread over the ground like Christmas garbage looking for another hitch from home to home.
Now, I don’t wish hate and I don’t wish for your blood. I don’t wish for death, and I don’t wish for much. I wish for some compassion and a little trust. I wish you could look in all our eyes without staring back to the ground. And I expected more from humans than to become their forever teenage clown.
Getting out the black bags and pick us up. Place us in there or find some luck. Find some peace through all this hazardous muck. We will begin to shovel our way from tunnel to tunnels under these bridges of stone. And we will make our way there, Christmas will leave the air, and we will be blessed by the exit of leaving the flakes where they lay. It will be yours now and we will look the other way.
They Had Sadness in their Eyes (Like in Littleton)
The sky has cracked
Raining down a hail of tiny eyes
Invading our space, we'd walk
Walk into the crutches of the hall's shadows
To hide in a new divinity.
Away from the howling
You feel the flooding in your hideaways
Your shaking is the deadest of giveaways
Melting in your sweat, in the fear
Will the maiming of the words keep your mind quiet,
can you forget it all?
Such wonders is the wind when it acts in a manic swaying
Those crippling leaves do tease us.
To digress us in a blood trace waxing in the sticks and spoons
Closets full of broken lights, tiny eyes
like boomerangs across the sky.
Watch me universally break apart the knife-stars
Collecting all the falling dust in a skinny bag
Flames scattering in our chase
Schools of blue watch us outrun the lunar flood.
Violence, anarchy from the treetops. The birds digest our mayhem
to the streets. While gases and ashes run over the walls.
We shout peace to walls like John Lennon,
and then we watch the buildings burn and drink in the breaking glass.
It was like someone broke in all the codes.
That lead us to the pink of the sunsets crying.
Our love is an infinite future.
To become free from all we've yearned for.
To feel complete, without the worries of hate.
To present beauty through all the drizzling art.
The world was too greedy to share
We couldn't believe words as laws.
So we continued fighting, lives are just scars
to look at in our corners of a heaven.
We continued gunning down true leaders.
We took the beauty from our land,
we danced a sad song to beautiful music
and danced madly without listening to the message.
Replaced it with angst, disgust while marketing mercenaries
that bled green invades our kiss.
A cyclops sees what a cyclops wants to eat. While with us, one eye is tears and One eye is drowned too deep to breathe.
Like a life in Littleton.
We shouted peace to the walls. And received the eye of war back.
Just another cyclops. Practicing carbine rifles on mannequins.
Listening for the echoes.
Forgetting we can only dream ideally in silence.
Ghosts they linger, and ghosts they whisper to all.
Ghosts they love and ghosts they fall through
Ghosts fade under pressure; ghosts suffocate on social screams.
So, we hide under bridges until either gunfire or greed fades.
In peace, unity, and love we can all blend together and move our orbs through Orion for a while.
links:
A Review of “Before the Bridges Fell” by David L O’Nan (review by Ivor Daniel)A Quicksilver Trilling by David L O’Nan : Poetry & Writing style lyrics inspired by DylanBlurbs for my (David L O’Nan) upcoming book “Before the Bridges Fell" from Ron WhiteheadCurrent 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 WrenBare Bones Writings Issue 1 is out on Paperback and Kindle
A girl we used to know on a beach, the former beach bunny
Carol Andersen was her name, and we knew she hated fishing.
When young she had all the old perverts with tongues wagging,
from Port Macquarie and everywhere else she said she was from.
She was a lost soul, yet who would ever really know?
She was a beach poet, with hearts in sand, and blades hidden in the castles.
She wasn't the only one, many young, many too young for the button-down Bukowski blokes that looked at a woman and never wondered more than what they could provide them.
A painfully shy star bred from the Tropic of Cancer, and often reading the "The Great Gatsby" by the waves, trying to avoid the invasions.
Remember Carol Andersen, confused, quiet with a debilitating grasp of heart, can she trust the creeping shadow bearing gifts?
Unknown followers in flower shops, tying themselves to her lips.
They gaze at her hips. And they slide away into a beach wave and smile.
Over a martini she hides in. In the prayers she fades away in.
They glance over her cup, to watch if she drops a sip.
Rebellious longers, siphon the gasoline, attend the beer festivals, joining Ponzi schemes, and use her for amusement.
I was held away from the spine of her book. Her name and image to my heart. I would bleed my prayers over candlelight hoping for her hand's touch.
Carol was here, in the sand, a shy smile, a flirtatious smile.
Then she went away. So now I’m hunting Bukowskis down with bottle cap bitten teeth and long mopped hair.
They all want to be the respected, unkempt island scholar. I can read their fake identities and watch them slide into caves and braid their sociopathic caskets.
The beach hops with sounds of bells, melted metal, and smells like Sour Mash Bourbon and shoes that have plastered manure soles.
Hard Rain Poetry Anthology U.S. Link https://tinyurl.com/2p938cy8 International links on this page.
https://feversofthemind.com/2022/06/23/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 WrenPoetry from David L O’Nan in the Famous Poetry Outlaws are Painting Walls and WhispersCurrent bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.
Fevers of the Mind 