| Poems: 050616 - June 5th, 2016 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2016/06/08 20:13 |
050616A
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All that damage to what was,
compounded with the damage
to what might have been.
If there ever were any damage control teams
they have long been exhausted.
The cave in is a relentless tumble
that thunders silently along the line
never quite crossing over,
but continuing to follow along
the only direction it could go.
Every disaster always fills in
all the gaps in what we thought we knew,
with its massive rearrangement
of all the notes and all the clues
into a more perfect dissonance.
Something that profoundly emphasizes
how excessively quiet we really were,
as to all of those little sounds
that pretended at their harmonizing
with what they failed to comprehend.
There are various things that I could break
if I really wanted to break them,
but it would do no real good anymore.
It never brings back what was lost,
and if it does it is never what one wanted.
So it is best to never disturb anything
that has gone over to the other side.
You can never really make it your’s
even if you can fetch it back
from out of one or another darkness.
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050616B
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Eventually there is that realization
that what one was always searching for
is not something that one can actually find.
That beneath any of their disguises
the surprises are never really pleasant.
The type of indication
that says that one ought to have given up
a very long time ago,
to reconciling with one’s own loneliness
as simply an inevitable condition of being.
One spends most of a lifetime
trying to comprehend that feeling,
as it passes through various stages
of what each seemed a new illumination.
Each of those another blotting out
of some prior illusion of understanding.
The nature of moving forward
but not really getting anywhere.
As if not listed in any catalogue
and therefore never actually found.
We used to be able to believe
in what were purely fictional romances.
None of those stories having come true
reduced it all to different assemblies
of various body parts.
The type of total disillusion
that leads to increasing loss of interest.
The way we gave up jigsaw puzzles
at some earlier time in our lives
as a mystery no longer worth solving.
It is more about what never happens
than it is about what consumes spaces
that occur somewhere in between.
The way dreaming is never really about
anything that we really long for.
A sort of punishment that we endure
for the crime of being born.
That moment when we first begin
to cause various types of pain,
as to what is enduring and endured.
It leaves us scarred with the idea
that suffering will somehow make us free.
The perpetual attempts at a breakthrough
from some sort of darkness into light.
The sort of thing that consumes us,
but which never delivers as to any promise,
beyond the suggestion of next time
we might chance to get luckier.
All of that leading to a kind of wishfulness
that some people readily fall into.
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050616C
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There is that nagging idea
of getting further away,
without leaving anything behind.
Imagining the perfect escape
from all of that meticulous scrutiny.
People are typically voyeurs
who really do love to watch.
It is only the subject matter
that demarcates various territories,
and places its guards
along carefully drawn lines.
Most of them are too easy to shock,
into total and complete denials.
They readily deny any stains on the fabric,
claiming that they came clean long ago.
What keeps them terrified
are all the dark little secrets
that they were encouraged to carry.
Something very easily arranged
according to some master plan,
made clear if you read the instructions
and call the toll free telephone number.
There was a time when I too would have tried
to send signals into the heavens,
waiting for coded messages in reply.
Something in the way stones were arranged,
an incongruous sign,
or in the way the clouds formed patterns.
It really did not matter what it was,
as long as it might be taken in response.
Now I know that there are no answers,
but that the interrogation always continues,
even if there is nothing more to say.
You never really know
which one is the loaded gun,
despite any sort of please and thank you.
You know you needed to be somewhere else
and it was only a stray moment,
of conditionally giving in,
somewhere in between mixed messages,
while explaining that one cannot remain
in that or any similar condition,
and already having moved on
to being much more desperate.
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050616D
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It is something similar to waiting
for the lady in the Rolls Royce
who never actually comes for you,
but always wishing that she would.
To wishing an alien space ship would land
and abduct you,
on a journey out of your mind,
to where no one would believe you.
Living on a planet
inhabited by billions of aliens
is not easy,
and requires considerable cunning.
It is all about getting away,
and leaving no traces behind.
Never having to look back
to where you came from.
The sort of situation
that none of your friends understand.
Knowing that they would not miss you
for more than a very short while.
Something always goes rotten,
among all of those stale leftovers,
that you keep rearranging mentally
as if there are new combinations.
Nothing really opened up,
to any of your inquiries.
It proved mostly a waste of time
as to trying to convince anyone.
You wrote them all off,
and cannot be bothered
with writing any epitaphs
to the litany of all too common.
It is what drives to distraction,
and trying to find deviations
that are more readily available
than the ones in paperback novels.
It is all too similar
to writing on a dungeon wall,
waiting for the next hot branding iron
of pure and utter boredom.
You begin to wait for things that way,
that somehow break the pattern,
of senselessly dull routine moments
that drag on into what seems eternity.
You know that there is something more
but it seems that you have not qualified
and so you do not have the right access
to get in or out.
The sort of feeling of being stuck
on one impaling point,
as if a barbaric example
of having struggled to get free.
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