| RE: POEMS 270709 - July 27th, 2009 |
http://groups.google.com |
| Robert Morpheal, Bob Ezergailis, Morphealism (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2009/07/28 12:04 |
270709A
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Measuring the cumulative effect
of all those experiences
that ought never to have happened
you arrive at the ugly result.
A much simpler bullet,
properly aimed
would have done a better job of it,
with far less expense.
You found out far too late
that all that ends up being real
is whatever you can hold onto,
and salvage is difficult after a flood.
You sit on your desert island,
in the middle of a sea of civilization,
only to find out you are not on the map,
remaining yet to be discovered.
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270709B
-----------
Times when every broken thing,
every building slated for demolition,
every ruined shell of a machine,
reminds you of how abandoned you really are.
You have been on the market far too long,
and no one comes and looks anymore,
preferring fresher meat for the same old slaughter
knowing you are already carved down to the bone.
Your name feels like the illegible mark
that is left behind after the erasure,
of anything you could have meant to yourself
your head hanging down as an unanswered question.
You have lost count of the number of days
since anyone asked you anything personal,
your face a weather worn sign
that no one bothers to read anymore.
Everyone wants something different,
leaving you as the empty, scuttled vessel.
You count your heartbeats
wondering if they left you that much.
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270709C
-----------
The belief has worn off,
the way an anaesthetic wears off,
leaving a sick feeling,
that something has gone wrong
while you were unable to know.
All your plans appear to have failed
to gain any approval,
though you kept revising them
until you had no idea left
that you could refer to as your own.
You stopped sending out invitations,
as if they are all bleeding you,
having exhausted the dwindled numbers,
of crossed off names,
on your post apocalyptic lists.
You were always told
that this is exactly what cannot happen,
but the belief has all worn off,
the way that anaesthetic wears off,
destroying the illusion of your life.
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270709D
-----------
The endless mountain of information
that erodes away your energies,
becomes an avalanche into your mind,
burying any hope of finding out.
Smothered in the white emptiness,
under the pressure of it all coming down,
you try to get out
finding you have nowhere to go.
No one found you,
and history has become gunshot wounds,
leaving you peppered with stories
that completely destroyed your faith.
No one rallied to your flag,
as all your defenses fell,
leaving you bleeding slowly to death,
among those hungry for your blood.
You know of no one left
who is really interested,
in anything you could ever want to do,
everyone a ghost, only passing through.
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270709E
-----------
Whatever you chanced to make,
they always want something else,
from a different face,
a different name,
a different coat
of different colors.
You pull the shroud around your self,
covering over the discarded ugliness,
discarding your expressions,
along with the outdated advertising flyers,
that you never really knew.
You feel the hard push,
but find there is no one really behind you,
and where you expected to meet someone
there is no one really ahead.
You are still in the same endless line,
and no one ever calls your number.
Your endless self control,
finds it has no control over anything else,
as everythng you painstakingly built
is relentlessly broken down
and someone else gets to do
whatever you were striving to do.
Each time you thought you had someone,
it ended like a sudden sucker punch,
tearing the lips from your face
leaving you nothing left to say
as to the death of your own imagination.
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