*the following poem was written in 2019 (c) David L O’Nan published in Reflections and Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art Digest. \u00a0 \u00a0 This is a piece based on the kind of man you have to look out for.\u00a0 He’s not the most respectful, breaks hearts constantly, a controlling, narcissistic and isn’t the most kind in general.\u00a0 He becomes a victim to self-medicating when he becomes a depressive,\u00a0 he might learn a lesson of how to be respectful when it is too late.<\/p>\n
In the smoky Ale House
\nLet’s call it Murfreesboro
\nHe’s got the swaying hips of a murder machine
\nSlick backed hair,
\na sex appeal predator
\nCollecting numbers,
\nspreading diseases,
\nI’ve known him to be a birdwatcher,
\na greaser witch
\nStepping up to women like a movie star
\nIn a masochistic leather jacket
\nHe runs up mountains without the fear of the plunge
\nA wind-up talking crash of dark caramel ale breath –
\nto a lost soft cheek
\nYou become his stage
\nFor all his radical jokes
\nUnnerving smiles
\nYou become his surgery,
\nFor all of his dissecting thought
\nOr so he thinks<\/p>\n
A point from going macho to a drunk
\nThen he’s your neighborhood brute
\nA traveling circus riot
\nWants you to become his scream queen victim
\nAs he challenges all –
\nto watch his demise to –
\nbeing a bar wrestler,
\nA real Vaudeville bullfrog
\nAnd he wants you to be his dancing daisy
\nWhile impersonates a Rudolph Valentino
\nNow he knows to mimic an operatic wind
\nA gust of bravado to a riverfront
\nStuck in a canvas frame,
\nfrom the beating heart of Ambroise Vollard
\nBut soon his oil stick is broken in the engine
\nAnd the hood is falling off<\/p>\n
From the Ale then the pills
\nNow he’s turning to the surgeon for good
\nBaiting you to a show, a one-man cult display
\nLike swarming buffalo gnats –
\nto a jar of Wild Maine Blueberry Jam<\/p>\n
Clay Huntley,
\na vivid swerving waterfall
\nWhile under his spell,
\na master weaver
\nAn electrician pulling all the wires of our bombs together.<\/p>\n
In 5 years
\nHe doesn’t breathe free
\nWhen lungs are wooden,
\nSet afire from all the tobacco digesting tumors
\n– in the Superior Lobe
\nGuillotining away at the Pleura,
\nbecomes like Mayonnaise
\nA sick interception from ego back to man
\nNow as death awaits
\nImagination and nature became the object
\n– of his lamenting eyes
\nHe likes to stray the fields,
\ngiving each bird a personality
\nFunny, how he never saw that in the women
\non his pinup calendars
\nTime is a fickle demon
\nSo, can we pray in the arms of what is timeless?<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n