Biography of Rhys Owens
Rhys Owens published his first book, entitled DUST, in 2006 which was to be his farewell to Romantic poetry, as well as the Postmodern and Modern eras. His first 'phase' of work completed, the travels began, accompanied by nonstop epiphanies, premonitions, and subtle hallucinations. He saw dreams and nightmares come true, compiling images in his poetic opus, THE DOPPELGANGER; and the great quest of consummating the soul, which he describes in vivid detail in his unpublished master work JOURNEY TO SOMEWHERE OTHER THAN THE NIGHT
As 'the slacker poet', 'the king of all losers', 'the mushroom man', Rhys Owens made a name for himself as a reclusive adventurer, blazing between the many dimensions of this world, embarking on tragi-comic flights of fancy from the ghoul haunted forests of rural Virginia to the futuristic badlands of Australia.
Relatively unknown in this lifetime, one can only surmise that he'll be discovered in the next. Or the one after that. Isolated from all artists and cultural custodians of his century by demeanor, and of other centuries for other reasons, he stands alone as a grand failure of 21st Century letters. Only time will tell if his name will be exploited and dragged through the toilets of the collegian world, as have the greater and lesser talents throughout history. For now, his work will haunt the solitary rooms and deserted streets of a crumbling America, for all the adventurers and poets of the future to conjure on their dark nights and lonely walks through confusion and desperation.
Rhys Owens Poems
Freezing, alone, a girl within herself tends the ground; Knowing the water does nothing but freeze, till around The turn of the year, winter gives way to spring again, Where cold, distant ice sees to mending; flowers begin
when i used to have to send letters to the editor from charleville-mezieres, i used to use stamps with pictures of Louis Pasteur on them. in the united states, i've been sending out manuscripts,
i lost my wallet a few weeks ago, while i was sitting on the rainwashed beach, after my truest love
White Man's Burden
The white man is born in fire, That's why he thinks of Heaven. God is a cold kind of love
yes, i'll hold your hair back, you sweet thing, you cute little whimsy, so you can throw up your nerve, with the price of your stomach wide open
One more bleak spring. One more of power and agony. A burning death in every momentary pleasure; Botched pleasure makes a man immortal.
A Phone Away From The Computer
there's a phone in another place, in the room with the computer in the house i don't live in. sometimes i put it there,
To Hart Crane
This hand beating its head Against a wall in the empty pocket, Missing only a postcard of regret: But still etching, —
Laugh Of The Just
i want to laugh so loud from the solitude of my room that it'll kill all my enemies with the envy of the dead.
every girl i ever knew had a boyfriend. it's like they come with them, like batteries included... and if you're ever lucky enough
i never had night terrors, but i know a guy that did. he used to go outside at night and scream that the elephants
it's not enough Guinevere, or should i call you Morgana? unless you, too, see me like a novelty act, with your shiny wizard.
only the women are loved. with men, it's only the madness, in and of its self that's used.- and we are literary, too.
i remember those nights, you showed up with your Russian haired hood, it was as the restaurant at the end of the world, more like a diner;
like a dancer with a walking stick, i wait for dawn
to crawl, heroically, from your womb, strong
and noble as a caring man can.
with murder on his breath, and filth below his toes.
when winter eats the last desserts,
and heaven washes the sheets where
we both used to lay. i sometimes want
to say something after the desire to say is gone.