Beyond - Poem by Rhys Owens
One more bleak spring.
One more of power and agony.
A burning death in every momentary pleasure;
Botched pleasure makes a man immortal.
One more, heated desert of bright color,
And I can smash the cup to the ground;
And lick it up that way.
Gulp after gulps of dirt-and-lace passion.
With the soft desserts between the long-
Lasting meals, with fine-choking pleasures.
I eat to fulfillment, in a full body
Blackened by an Earth scorched by electric light,
Local, electrical, pattern recognized message-signs,
And puny lights, that outshine and glow the body.
I darken my face with emotion:
"We are not expected to feel this way…
We're not to say, and do, like that
Any more…" It's too late, we weren't born
For that excrement brown that delights
You when you think of farms…
When you see the faded, plain yellow envelopes
With the creases that like-dirt traces on the neck
Of a body that contains a message, from the symbols
Of old youth: - "We're not old youth.-
"We're fresh as the light of the new cast on screen;
That flashes with its electric light that leaves no ghosts on our eyelids.
We've found a way of getting past that…"
You paint your face like I do, in that light;
Like a black slave, whose pain is obsolete too.
Darkened with emotion, not of cruel comedy,
One more Dionysian spring;
And I'll throw the cup to the ground,
And lap it up thickstyle like a cow chewing its cud.
"We're not meant to feel that way anymore…"
No, you're not allowed to feel this way any more:
So you throw nothing to the ground,
You play nothing on the air,
You send nothing through the waves,
You leave nothing but exhaust smoke,
From an exhausted life that burns like cold air on a bald head.
One more excrement brown spring,
And I'll throw blackface to the ground,
In the noon of my emotions;
Where pale skinned vampires eat but don't swallow
The soul of the music,
Foisted on them by the villainy of the clowns that love too much.
"Too much love is a crime. A damn shame…"
I put those words in your mouth,
Because you're still choking on exhausted smoke.
Excuses, frozen offerings where you keep corpses in two freezers in your basement,
Ghosts that have no bodies, bodies that have no ghosts…
Spirits that have no souls,
Love that has no heat,
Talent that has no movement,
Dances that have no life.
One more, not for the road;
The broken flesh of the crippled host;
Not for the parasites that need the oil,
The blood, the weapons, and the drugs.
But for the sun, that melts the heart,
The trees that calm the air,
With their own humble dances.
One more dance, with drunken longing,
Before I put on the black of race tracks, tar, and racist pride;
The Capital clear black of post humanity, no country, no race,
No emotion; no lasting promises.
Guilt free, stricken mood swings, no hope,
Just tears. No books to fling; but just rest the chaliced head,
The bored sex, the crippled spring, the exhaust winter,
Eagle eyed jealousy, knife chosen envy, bleeding rooftops
Of meaningless dropping birds, and lonely rain!
More lonely than a kiss, on a head that keeps talking on the phone;
A fallen gravestone in a background you never knew.
When I walk within one more house I don't want
And then another, and another;
Put the whole thing down to one more morning, one more spring, -
One more winter, one more year.
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