011213A
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It is all the broken parts
that no one can ever mend.
and the parts I am not suited to playing.
I watch you join the departures,
at that wayward station
where someone is always leaving
and there are never any arrivals.
Somewhere at the end of the line,
they are throwing dice,
in an attempt at deciding
how the universe might chance to end.
I was hoping for something more
before the end of time,
but in the game of musical chairs
there are never enough to go around.
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011213B
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Adopting the local customs,
that pass as the habits
of various casual friends.
We hide in the jungle,
pretending nothing can see us,
knowing it is always full of eyes.
Their habits are about forgetting,
and so you try to master the process,
making various improvements.
The more that you can forget
the easier it tends to become
as to slowly slipping away.
to see if it would make any difference,
as to beating the odds.
The results are invariably the same.
Only something more to forget,
so as to shake loose from memory.
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021213A
------------
Whatever it was about,
has already gone rotten,
the way nearly anything goes rotten
that is left lying about,
exposed and vulnerable.
If you want to keep anything,
you have to hide it,
and keep it cold,
knowing anything left out
will always go bad.
The dangling conversation
hangs as would a corpse
hanging from a meat hook
Gutted of its intended meanings,
it decays away slowly.
Sounds are incrementally lost,
creating longer and longer gaps,
between broken syllables,
the way radio transmissions
break up into a static pulse.
Too hard an endless task
to keep anything alive,
in among all that dying out,
and perpetually dying down,
to cold embers of regret.
It is always the beginning
that causes the most pain,
knowing that to begin is to prepare
for sudden endings
where one or another axe drops.
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021313B
------------
The whole thing
floats bloated belly up,
on the surface
of public opinion,
until someone shoots it,
blowing a hole in it,
spewing its guts,
and causing it to sink
out of sight.
Scroungers
dart across thin layers
of social tension,
hovering at dead ends,
gathering up
what was tossed aside.
Whatever has fallen in
gets carried away
downstream.
If anything occurs,
it occurs in spasms.
Spasms of sex,
spasms of death,
and spasms of limbs,
attempting escape.
Seeking a convulsion
that will fix
the permanently broken.
Bugs caught in amber,
the only reliable patterns,
the spreading ripples of light
across midnight pools
where countless faces stare
into the ice
contemplating fracture lines,
colors,
and other emotional trauma.
Some luckier than others,
as to freedom of choice,
about which implements of pain
they might select to suffer,
not having been chosen,
for anything more particular.
The cherished illusion
that the pressure ever eases up,
before it crushes.
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021213C
------------
That persistent feeling,
that going any way
makes it go
the other way around,
and going
the other way around
makes it go
any other way
than any which way
that I want it to go.
Most people give up trying,
knowing they never win.
The wheel spins,
loaded with destiny,
which is the ultimate fix,
that can cheat anyone.
That cruel contrivance,
designed as a pure torment
of coming close,
but never getting close enough
to actually land.
Left circling,
waiting for system failure.
That insatiable desire
that seizes with wanting,
whatever it seems
gives a really good time,
evading routine,
rejections,
trivial pursuit,
and terminal boredom,
before dying out,
spent,
and knowing we all perish
inconveniently.
You perish to me,
I perish to you,
we all perish here and there,
to this one, and that one,
wiping them from the slate,
the way teachers wiped clean
their blackboards,
leaving dusty undead smudges,
of barely decipherable ghosts,
telling us that becoming history
is much simpler
than we believed it was.
Too much trying to love,
what one genuinely hates,
nailed to one lie after another,
because there are no choices,
and it seems the right thing to do,
always pressed with expectations
as to lying about that too,
in between letting go
of wanting to select dreams
from the jukebox
of every forbidden thought,
that one could want to make flesh.
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