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
Within my brain.
My veins continue to pump clutters of blood
In my grainy body
Just a microcosm of a higher being
Slipping on that infinite slick spot
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 heartless mind,
The dire left after the shock.
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
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.