أسياد الظلام - Amiri Baraka

Quote: I am inside someone who hates me. I look out from his eyes. Smell what fouled tunes come in to his breath. Love his wretched women. Slits in the m e t a l, for sun. Where my eyes sit turning, at the cool air the glance of light, or hard flesh rubbed against me, a woman, a man, without shadow, or voice, or meaning. This is the enclosure (flesh, where innocence is a weapon. An abstraction. Touch. (Not mine. Or yours, if you are the soul I had and abandoned when I was blind and had my enemies carry me as a dead man (if he is beautiful, or pitied. It can be pain. (As now, as all his flesh hurts me.) It can be that. Or pain. As when she ran from me into that forest. Or pain, the mind silver spiraled whirled against the sun, higher than even old men thought God would be. Or pain. And the other. The yes. (Inside his books, his fingers. They are withered yellow flowers and were never beautiful.) The yes. You will, lost soul, say ‘beauty.’ Beauty, practiced, as the tree. The slow river. A white sun in its wet sentences. Or, the cold men in their gale. Ecstasy. Flesh or soul. The yes. (Their robes blown. Their bowls empty. They chant at my heels, not at yours.) Flesh or soul, as corrupt. Where the answer moves too quickly. Where the God is a self, after all.) Cold air blown through narrow blind eyes. Flesh, white hot m e t a l. Glows as the day with its sun. It is a human love, I live inside. A bony skeleton you recognize as words or simple feeling. But it has no feeling. As the m e t a l, is hot, it is not, given to love. It burns the thing inside it. And that thing screams.