Poetry: Gilded Peacocks in Coffins (Ant Farm Empath) collaborative poem from Elizabeth Cusack and David L O’Nan

photo from pixabay

from the series “The Empath Dies in the End”

Gilded Peacocks in Coffins (Ant Farm Empath)

1 (from Elizabeth Cusack)

 I am on safari today
Leading around an empath
He is high on feeding ants
Then watching them brawl

We are surrounded now by fire ants
But he is not bothered at all
He loves his ants as much as he loves me
And I’m not bothered at all.          

2 (from David L O'Nan)

300 miles away on a crowded boulevard
They are watching peacocks fight in the street
The winner gets the moneybag, the loser gets the feathers and the coffin.
Feathered fans are to be beautiful,  Where is the beauty in brutality?

3.

Let’s walk down skid row, and crawl around some suspicious bones.
To get to that half-eaten waffle that looks like it isn’t too disgusting just yet.
They have August prancing in the streets, aids in her blood and –
No blankets on her cold feet.    Still, Mr. Jack Daniels wants to throw her –
On the back of a Harley and treat her to his idea of Neverland.

4. 

We can’t always believe empathy will lead us to sincerity, it often leads us to depravity.
We wish upon crooked beaten stairs with loos nails, falling from the brittle sky.
Continuously and see if we can wake up from a nightmare or just sweat through another
dream.  A murder was caught on videotape and they showed the world in blue lights.
I believed Gandhi was there paralyzed and crawling through the deserts of scorned corn.

5.

They began to walk the peacocks in coffins to bury them in the desert,  and all I’m thinking about-
Is you, a love that honesty died in. I never fully met the woman you became after your many scared ideas. Confusion was a common feeling and was the constant weakness. And in your strong heart you felt you could change them. Maybe they were never your appetite and my taste a little too Avant Garde to explore. A little clumsy, a little wanderer that wouldn’t stray too far from your pains that I’ve always felt in my fingers.


6. 

We found the man with the ants,  fire ants… burning through dirt.
Scarring our asses and chewing at our fruits. 
Maybe we shouldn’t all be soldiers after all, 
Monarchies, hierarchies, control us to our last debts.
Does the last of humanity have a voice, or does the cannonball 
Singe louder than the guitar strings while my pain sings louder than imploding bombs. +

 July 2022 Poetry Showcase by Elizabeth Cusack  +

Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.


Poetry: Spasm Dreams collaborative poem by Ron Whitehead & David L O’Nan

(c) David L O’Nan

part of the “The Empath Dies in the End” series

Spasm Dreams

part 1 (Ron Whitehead)

Waking up at 1 or 2 or 3am is not unusual
for the storyteller poet who dwells between worlds. 
Waking and sleeping are spasm dreams 
for one who merges with other forms of life 

as naturally as breathing and singing. 
The empath is fully present 
while simultaneously merging
with birds and rivers and trees and seas.


Part 2 (David L O'Nan)

We were slick and in love or at least my heart felt it.
I’d look into your eyes and see my gritty reflection.
A fire under my eyes that began to jump the floods for you.
You had me cast as the cloud, and we dragged into worship.

We’d sit on your crippled granny’s couch as a loving couple.
On acid we’d hold hands and breathe on each other’s necks.
The Temptations on bandstand dancing and singing their voices raw.
All the while you were on a curvy road driving with the leatherjackets.

They’d offer you the oven, and they’d offer you a night of kneeling stillness.
To shut up the salts from the wounds. You were given the clanging golden.
The wind in the alleys.  It was me still searching for you. 
You could never feel the crowns in my eyes.  Was it only raining when the Eagle flies?

Years I’ve seen and years I’ve died, innocently watching new boots bash in my mind.
Pollutions over gardens, I found Jesus and I found the rat.   
I found the tranquil Jill and Jack Kerouac in a Cadillac.
I found the ornaments on Christmas morning, but I’ve never found another you.

Spasms- as if the dreams are telling me something?
Spasms – as if I’ve been lifted over the crashing jets and risen into heaven
Spasms – as if the windows are opening for my old skeletons to creep out 
Spasms – as if the drink, the pills, the junk have replaced my need for breath.

Damn it I must be living in a dream.  Driving through prose in my maddening seams.
Strained and feeling like a mix of neglect and tears. The juvenile is now cracked bones
And I cannot walk.   But I hope my imagination never loses you. And I don’t know why.
I would always waltz to your newest abuse just to keep you from all those that recluse.

You were made to be their rattlesnakes in the newest slit wrist garden.
New scars to present to the pretty and the wicked to all gaze away.
Convert quickly to the chemistry I retain inside.  I could lead you to my glance.
Erase these strikes even while I’m old and vanishing.  Give me this last dance….
Finally..again
                           I guess the Empath dies in the end.

 

A Fevers of the Mind Interview/Promo piece with Ron Whitehead, U.S. National Beat Poet Laureate 

Blurbs for my (David L O’Nan) upcoming book “Before the Bridges Fell” from Ron Whitehead  

Paperback & Kindle version of Cursed Houses is now available from David L O’Nan on this link below  

Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.
 




Collaboration Poem: “Luminol” by Ryan Quinn Flanagan & David L O’Nan

(c) David L O’Nan

from “the Empath Dies in the End” coming out soon

  Luminol

 Part 1 by  Ryan Quinn Flanagan

There is primrose to your pageantry, I assure you!     
That Nureyev of glide-less marionettes,
burial chambers of the once sacrosanct 
now looted of moving treasures.
Advancement through the pay scale,
another sort of dance entirely.

part 2  by David L O'Nan

There are ecosystems decaying under your watch, I assure you!
 I watch you with fire in my eyes, juggling chainsaws again,
You’re determined to derail the freight train.
You’ve smashed your art to the submission, marbled smashings
Francois Millet’s The Gleaners, in wet trash and curly dandelion bits.
A thought that you could become the next Prophet cursing out orders from the bema.
Screaming out Exodus quotes, Disgracing Peleshet, while you’re scrubbing the floors.

The Milk and sugar are becoming more valuable and expensive down these roads.
These roads, once of gold, now of blood, now of clarity once the luminol is glowing 
The sins, the creek snakes seem to have more knowledge than the townsfolk and television hoaxes.
They claimed to meet Jesus during the throwing stones.  When the lightning burnt the sick 
From the grounds, low and holding the curve of the cane, the rainstorm came alive and began
Walking hot lit water all over our skin.  Your skin seemed to light up more than the rest.

Do you have a confession?

The marionettes will not glide, but they do talk. 
Yes, they do talk and they aren’t always that wooden smile and programmed like a dream.
There are some that just dance, dance by the endless dying.
I run my arm under the sun, from blood to the skin that reflects in my dancing, dying pupils.
I carved a few rambling sentences into my muscles, soon to become some new bible.
Heaven comes from the dreams of light and comes from ….

Oh, did you say you have a confession?

They never run out of luminol here. 

 Poetry Showcase for Ryan Quinn Flanagan  

Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.






Poetry Inspired by Photography by Kevin DeLaney @kpdela Poetry by Matthew Freeman, Vipanjeet Kaur, Lesley Curwen and David L O’Nan “The Empath Dies in the End”

The Empath Dies in the End

So I find myself alone after a night of separation
A Black night lit up over our green chairs.
Now empty, no longer filled by our bodies
and our conversations, sits like ghosts
My God! this night has moon lit on fire.

I was the first to vanish from your anger.
Your white lightning skin wrapped in the moon rays,
as you paddled insults to my heart.
You will never let me feel the honey.
To let my lungs wrap up in the stickiness.
The mosquitoes and the bees begin to sleep with a thirst.

Will a new man let you swim in that undertow?
The Chimes they cling together by the swirling winds.
The clashing waves pour onto your cracked toes from Lake Seneca.
Several hours of dancing some unnamed waltz.  
On your hideaway beach that wasn't hours. 
That is what the prophet tells me.   
Stabbed in waiting while the hymns carry my ghost away from my body.

I listen with dim sleeping eyes.  The boats in the distance belt out 
tunes.  I drain in this loneliness.  The weakness, rustic in scowl.
Blood over the beads of rocks.  Listened to the wind blow once.
Listened to the wind blow twice.  It was a disguise.
Converged pure from my polluted brain.  The narcissists were wiry and sudden and overtook my neglected heart. Infested a brain.
The Empath dies in the end.

Current bio for Fevers of the Mind’s David L O’Nan editor/writing contributor to blog.

The Tranquil Sun by Vipanjeet Kaur

The sun sits tranquilly 
over the western horizon
at dusk,
His charioteer slows down
and pauses for a while
After traversing the whole sky.

While riding the chariot of dusk,
He smiles a last fading smile –
A farewell gesture;
A token of eternal love;
A parting kiss 
to the dying day.

While folding millions of his
imponderable arms of rays
that pervade the world
throughout the day,
He draws the blinds of 
his effulgence down
before night,
Like a mourner,
saluting the passing day.

Beyond the picket fence
of my mansion,
The one-eyed overseer
rings the bell of repose
and looks at me 
through crimson windows,
imparting a rosy aureole 
to my dormant hopes,
and like a dreamcatcher 
promising vernal dreams.

A fervent plea in his closing eye
to release the unrealised dreams of 
the dying day: broken, dead and decayed
in the autumn of dusk.
Let them burn 
on the pyre of the setting light,
Let the sombre red embers
reduce them softly to ashes
with the deepening darkness of dusk,
Let them dissolve in the darkness of night,
Let the cremains of despair be immersed 
in the flowing silver moonlight

before a new dawn begins
a new chariot ride. 

Bio: Ms. Vipanjeet Kaur from India is a poet fond of writing poems on various themes like nature, women empowerment, self, spiritualism and life.  Her haikus have been featured in the international online journals like Haiku Dialogue of The Haiku Foundation, The Haiku Pond, The Cold Moon Journal and the Scarlet Dragonfly Journal and her micropoetry has been published in the Five Fleas (Itchy Poetry). She has also read research papers on the topics of Literature, Human Rights and Women Empowerment in a few national seminars and international conferences. 
She can be followed on Twitter @vjpoeticmusings.



Fevers by Matthew Freeman

And I’ve said there’s no difference
between the streetlamp and the moon.
And that’s still true, but now
in late September as everything wanes
I’m sitting outside my sister’s apartment
with my diet soda and my cigarette and my iPod
watching the crowd get thin at Ted Drewes
and every little thing we believed in fall apart.
Someday when the sun burns out you’ll ask yourself
whether you stayed true, really true, to your
feverish desire.  

A Poetry Showcase by Matthew Freeman 

Moonage by Lesley Curwen

Haloed lunacy floats crosshatch beam
through umber cloud and bulrush-crown.   Bleak horizon swallows photon-feed
down continents of eyeless waves.

Landward, pines guard empty chairs 
against moon's threat, a pump-song
chuckles chlorine,  muddles jets
of aquamarine gems.

Poetry based on photography “The Lone Road to Moloka’I” from Maggs Vibo
 Poetry based on photography Challenge from Ankh Spice pt. 1