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Savion Spencer

of

New York, NY, US

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by

Savion Spencer

To The Thought That One

Could Ever Leave-

HOME

there

on a field of condoms and crack vials

victims again of their conspired denials

where their nights are dark

and their days darker

where some choose to conceive

knowing

where encoded bruises

are left behind

a quick-fix of love or potions

to relieve discomforts

of hidden emotions

treated once again

with such violent elegance

reduced to a role

a lifeless soul

with so little time

to savor and suffer

they manage to pass

the desperate hours

with naked expression

with shattered hearts

it was left behind

their hysterical society

where they were different

at least to them

please not speak of virtue

as too little would be certain

and please not speak of verdicts

that may return to you

the time goes on

for robert and brigham and evelyn and roger

for alfred and his brother

for billy and his mother

for all once were

so they still are

a part

home

Voiceless Wishes

by

Savion Spencer

there

behind a poorly hidden inviting smile

with an indented midsection and a biscuit butt--

early on the rise and calves--slickedy smooth

still awkward in beauty though complete in composition

unable to hide the tremoring fingers

and screaming anticipation

surges of instinct and stampeding excitement

dashed the barriers of consciousness that had

rendered unattended our desperate affections

left incapable of pretending not to know

sacredest territories were suddenly exposed

anonymous desires and unclaimed wishes

met for nourishment and hugs & kisses

a relaxed entrance lined with welcome and

thought filled motions in united isolation

in space rendered undisguised and obvious

with truth and fidelity and unquestioned sincerity

unwithheld sounds of inner excitement

through unchartered passages and internal delightment

we quietly laid in our sacred cuddle

binded by evidence and mingled perspiration

in what was left of our mutual explanation

rich with account and certain in spirit

the rare spare moments in life when we live it

The Buffalo Roadhouse (1981)

by

Savion Spencer

i can take it

the west side highway again

tough getting over

the loss of some friends

at happ'ning joints

we sat for hours

swappin pasts and dreams

fast food and sours

and as we grew

one thing we knew

from what we'd been through

and all the care

that in our future

we'd each be there

he moved his lips

he raised his head

the n.y. times said

150 might surely be dead

and then the wonder

paralyzing wonder

the mother and father

of lightning and thunder

in its speed it surely came

sparing none with its blame

shadowy cremations

revealed the shame

i thought i failed

somewhere in our talks

cause i got precautious

early in my walk

with amended realities

i look ahead these days

thanking the powers

i could change my ways

i recall the bounce

of that highway beneath

of all it had meant

and all it could teach

Tattoos Don't Bleed On Dead Skin

by

Savion Spencer

there

we were taken long before we were ready

through barely lit rooms of horror and pain

where air is shared with unwelcoming scents

bouquets of antiseptic and cancer and the plague

surrounded by shelves up high in rows

candy jars filled with formaldehyde and hearts

tendered most naively then very sharply broken

not once or twice but over and over and over again

and not out of necessity no not out of need

broken for one reason: because they could be

my eyes they burned at every turn

i saw an archway short and narrow

and hit both sides fighting to get through

to the room of remains all open for view

in their clothes saturated not only with them

but with flies and worms and slugs and bugs

and empty boxes for dahmer and manson and his gang

in this room they kept the murdered saints

with a running nose i tried not to breathe

the lights went out so i had to feel

ahead down below to a faint flickering glow

to a forsakened place where angels no longer go

met by escorts we were silently led

through a corridor like life

where souls on fire are just passed by

a telling quiet the only warning

before sounds of air rushing thru their flames

staggering stuns strike long after the pain

not once or twice but over and over and over again

i begged the escorts to help me get back

i wanna go back to nana and the pact

if not for long for just a little while

back to the late late show

the million dollar movie

the overbearing seventies

the harrad experiment and the stepford wives

billy jack and the pam grier flicks

a time when hate seemed to decline

any time in my life that was pre aids

not hard to see this was not gonna be

heard by my ears eyes and soul: depend on us not

we speak only the language of convenience

no longer led we were now being pushed

into a room of memories and primitive senses

the short lived days of incomplete duets

times of promise and times of ignorance

with vanishing images and voices unseen

terrorizing fear recreates the view

up on the wall presented cinematically

were replays of harm and base humiliation

imposed degradation and personal moments of shame

times we wished God was not watching

uncomfortable times when life painfully describes

for us who we were then then

i was tapped on the shoulder by the Saviour in me

saying wake up wake up do this not for Thee

or was it a necessary or unnecessary torment

for seasons of fallacy and spells of fraud

or for when and why we chose not to see

how the feelings of one affects us all

and the immeasurable value of every soul