4 Poems by David O’Nan

Punk Noir Magazine

1: Clearly!

Kaleidoscopic rainbow men

scurrying through dumpsters

In search of their souls.

They carry the hands of fate

with matching bleeding fate

They succumb to territorialism,

they breathe in tantric manoeuvring

They slit the soldier’s wrist in the green air,

The war air

Bombshells, gun shells

filling up their stomachs with nuclear slime.

Digesting liquified bones

Dreaming in presidential monotone

Picking the hands off the clock

with many shades of plasma and blood

on their claws

Ripping the tock away,

making love to the ticking

Relishing and marinating

in each other’s sexual juices

Lighting a cloud on fire,

then inhaling the ashes

To take in the ultimate high

High as a cloud they exclaim!

As they continue

pulling their amulets and chains

out from under God’s lockbox.

Sepia coloured tombs

being spit at by these loose streetwalkers

These, living in monarchy

dressing in megalomania clothing

They peel whispers out of strangers,

secrets locked in silence

Chipping away at the stones of their mind statues

Beaming red flame cigars

in their quivering halitosis mouths

Gorgeous sun burning their breasts and legs

with Cancerous sores.

Glory written in black on their televisions,

on their windows

Glory burned in their mind

much like a hot iron pressed into their brain cells.

They are found by cold blooded killers

With gangrene gasses and poisonous sewage

Trapping them into a burden

Parading them with acid rain

and bulletproof tears

The sexy ladies are there

picking them the flowers

That crumble and die once they touch the palm

The murder geniuses

are salivating in their orange vests

Screaming with lungs crippled

and dangling from their smoke-filled chest.

Staring into and out of trees

with decrepit sinister eyes

Senile diseased chapped loins

being gazed at on busy sidewalks

throughout the city everyday

They walk in moderation

To picket the celebration

To riot against a freedom nation

They want to close minds

Drink the juice of the atrocious arsenic wine

And who is that in sheep’s clothing?

It’s a government,

a media darling

The sounds of hell’s wolves howling


2: Minor Fame Backwash

Saliva covering unsanitary tongues

clinching every corner, 

every crevice on my face

The whispering in my ears

Are promises, promises of lies

of tickling feathers, 

the harmony and love and joy

The consumption of lust

blood flowing through the veins quickly

Savoring the taste of tissue and bone on the way

To the hardening, the softening,

the promise of sanctity

The slivering of her hand touching mine

her long brown hair, 

the smell of raspberries and Spring flowers

Traps my mind into only one thought

“My how good does it feel, for now”

Her hair touching my skin

is the same comfort of warm water

as it sucks your every pore with its subtle heat.

Her gorgeous, slightly tanned skin,

the slight sweat

The hunger of a woman

The air around us

smells like borrowed candles,

and recycled insense.

My face now wet with lipstick,

and that saliva

Her clothing next to a floor heater

The flamboyance and erotica of a townhouse

actually can be tempting sometimes.

My wallet full of receipts of purchases,

of phone numbers of these type of women

The women who don’t really give a damn,

The women who are turned on by the wallet,

That quiver at the taste of champagne

That want the security of muscle.

These women are sequestered in the unknown

Of what is reality and what is fame

They have swallowed emotional highs

They have spit away reasonable daft thinking.

Wanting to live a garnished existence –

of pleasing themselves by –

temporarily pleasing those who have a name

So now it is morning

Light outside, light inside

The sun is a beautiful sinister yellow

The sky is a mundane blue

The clouds showing confusion,

the wind knowing of another one-night stand.

I gather my clothing

and walk towards 4th Street to begin another day.

Another day made

for a black and white dream sequence

in some out of date movie

that only survives

through the passion of lies and promises.

3: Coma Phase 1

My coma phase 1


Breath has become silent

The invasion begins in the deep circuit

Wires intertwined

Within my brain.

My veins continue to pump clutters of blood 

In my grainy body

Just a microcosm of a higher being

Or feeling,

Slipping on that infinite slick spot

Keep sliding,

But no closure

My heart begins to spit, burp, leak…

Blood, slime, cold fluid

To blind eyes, die.

Whispering lust from what we thought was heaven

The bruising angels are so endearing.

Wings scraped across the sky

Like razors to the clouds.

Wind and rain in silence.

Thoughts preside in a vegetable mind.

Raptured in the brainwaves

Still obeying to the heresy

Can’t see a beautiful face.

No such feather touch.

No warm breath over the cold lifeless.

Just a closet twitch, here and there

All my heroes are now ghosts.

They are dark shadow junk puppets

Living in a boring dreamy haze.

A collective of anxiety dust,

And poisonous mucus streams

My coma,

My heartless mind,

My coma,

The dire left after the shock.

Or applause,

My coma

Love succumbing to mercy

The coma entraps my oxygen

And I move on to phase 2.

4: Chalmette Skies Over the Junkyard. (With borderline eyes)

Bring me the burning blue flame

She says

I want to feel the burn again, the pain again.

Oh, the sweet blue flame

Burn the candle over my naked skin.

I want to feel ashamed within.

I want to feel the hot wax submerge inside my pores.

In my flaccid veins.

It is such a frigid night

I want to see the inferno,

So bright, so frightening once again.

Under Chalmette skies

I have disguised myself for years under these clouds.

My cold chilly skies,

They should be burning, burning only for me.

I want to feel its touch.

Encasing me with sorrow and a bitter taste.  Lick the air of its sugar.

Let my tears fall hidden in nature’s rain.

I’ve been collecting too much dust to lay in vain.

I just want to be surprises for once from you!

Too predictable, You are too predictable!

Your beauty is much too shear.

Your aura too clear, I can see right through you.

Now years are going by much too fast.

Under Chalmette skies

Dark sensational skies.

I need to feel the ultimate lull.

My crimson mask and dark eyes,

Do Not Satisfy me Anymore!

Was I a shadow from a life before?

Heat pushes me away, but I still reach.

As I’m being burned by the flame,

The mercy in my shame.

With my frozen feet,

You’ve neglected yourself, didn’t share yourself.

You are now a stone,

Crippling yourself into the ground.

That feather she follows.

With that wooden bite that she inherited from the natural flow of falling.

Let’s close our eyes, as the alligators limp in that swampy gate.

Quick bio: (he/him) David L O’Nan is a writer/founder of Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art. He has several self published books and curator of 5 Anthologies. His work can be found on www.feversofthemind.com. Anti-Heroin Chic, Icefloe Press, Cajun Mutt Press, Royal Rose Mag, Dark Marrow, Ghost City Review, Nymphs Publishing and more.

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