| POEMS: 120709 - July 12th, 2009 |
http://groups.google.com |
| Robert Morpheal, Bob Ezergailis, Morphealism (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2009/07/12 23:29 |
120709A
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You eventually grow weary
of being martyred
in the fight against martyrdom.
Nothing has really changed,
in this late spring, compared to any other,
season of an excess of flowers.
Time slips away,
holding everything in its grasp,
and you can never pull back hard enough.
There is no real choice
except to become one of the unlucky ones,
consumed by a growing hunger for beauty.
It is exactly what you cannot find,
when you need it the most,
but there are indications of it everywhere.
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120709B
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I need you,
because I was told too many times
that I do not need you.
I need you,
because you captured my gaze,
and I do not know who you are.
I need you,
to renew that sense of passion,
where it all feels like suicide.
I need you,
going our separate ways in the morning.
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120709C
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Everywhere I turn
there is another snake lying in wait,
and I find that I am reflected
in the black mirrors of its eyes.
Now I want to walk into that darkness,
the way a shadow walks
through pitch black doorways,
entering the darkness of the mind.
Each snake indicates another region
of the map, with its crossed roads,
and when it moves it follows
smoothly along the undulating curves.
I want to find you,
so that I can feel the snake enter you,
releasing drops of milk white venom,
squeezed into the convulsions of your body.
We need to poison each other,
the way the ancients poisoned each other,
scattering each other to the winds,
and washing each other away in the waters.
I want to taste your breath on my tongue,
uttering all the forgotten syllables,
until the world is made new again,
and we are all four directions of it, all at once.
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120709D
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Between more and less
there was nothing really true.
Another mean standard,
of deviation. A mere average.
You counted my wounds,
obsessed with measuring and adding up.
This was a new variety of pain,
that you wanted me to savor painfully slowly.
You failed to see, each wound had come about
due to the same process of wishing something else.
Then I wished you,
and that too was another instance of the same.
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