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patrick jones
still I know no
thing
all I retain all I articulate is the screaming
the frantic wrenching screaming from the faces from the throats
from the days from the pain from the love;
but within the catheter borders of the screaming
lays a dripping dying crying eloquence
a terrible vociferation of every soul that we enclose within
ourselves;
I retain
I feel a searing eloquence within
words bathed in barbed wire echoing in windowless rooms
pages in a grandfather's death drawer
leaves in a tornado vacuum,
these are the screams within
these these are the life streams bleeding from skin
for without the screaming there is
no
thing;
and if only you could know what I know
and if only I could know what
you know
we could replace the without within
there is no eloquence without screaming.
The lead mask I wear pours draughts down my throat
Delinquent thoughts are cult before they can breath in this
reasened rationed technocracy
an otherness imposed upon from outsideness
Inside I am a bayonet
I am a vulcanic ulcer of expulsion
yet I go nowhere
layered by too many years
lays the stuttering voice of denial
the silent dream of action
veining my mind like cocaine
lonely as a hurricane
blinding my eyes with hatred
of myself for I am not;
inside the placid flesh
lays a needle ripping for release
feeling for the yellow core of dying beauty within;
silence-
bares the cursed child of freedom
the eloquence in the screaming
through pale corridors of routine
rituals wither sunflower sun
bending like old men at the crack of whip work;
depositing permanence of brains dripping sedition from the lead
ceilings
grey above our heads
stepping on the chlorophyll and
cultivating materials to soothe the deriliction of our movements
towards the polished bathrooms red white and blue
perfection we sit
like ferns in stone waiting wanting
to sleep
just to sleep-
pouring whitewash in our mouths
the delectable drenching of our souls
by the veneer of illusion strangling the seed before the sun can
caress
the latent power the lip of creation
breathing in alienation across the factory floor nation
into our minds for more
the white disease;
for more
the beetle of greed the money magic seed
of destruction and defraction; into us it comes
replacing our sad eloquence with the obscene apathy of 'Have a
nice day' and 'It could be you'
'Forget it all in an instant'
smothering the screaming with the businessed smile and credit
sale
seeping into the victims of the lobotomised caress
the destruction of the screaming to make the place seem cleaner
is the grin of the corporator the pen of the advertiser
BUT
Between the billboard masturbation across highway of metallic
isolation
there lies the deafening screaming of the millions wiping out the
diseased pages
of apathy that bleed our eloquence
with words of amnesia
that forgets the feeling with the anaesthetic dream of the
lottery
and
there rises the blood of the trees
the blue of the dolphins
arise
arise hate eloquence and destroy the death dreaming
and
out there
in there
somewhere
is where
here
there
I desire to speak;
somewhere without limits and fences
sometime without tenses
i
desire
to
speak.