| Poems: 260616 - June 26th, 2016 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2016/06/26 22:53 |
260616A
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Lies fall raindrop
flood of wash away
sharp rivulets cutting
into dreamscapes.
Memories evaporate
into a dense fog
of maybe knew
and other morbidities.
Autopsies performed
by skilled actors
reciting fragments
from papyrus texts.
Failure is noted
beside each of the names
of any romantic interests,
written on bandages.
Absolute dessication
having cried a tear
for each and every sorrow,
turns bones to dust.
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260616B
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Sweating the heat
salts the gone sour day.
It seems indecent
to drink a 12 year old Scotch.
Cherry picking
supermarket bargains.
Seems all too trite
and far too trivial to say.
Fortune teller doll
beckons through a window.
If she was any good
I might have stopped there.
No one is ever good
in this part of town.
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260616C
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The type of girl I really wanted
is the type I could never be.
That ruined it in most ways
as to what I could never replace.
One gets off the path
when the traffic gets heavy.
Then never finding it again,
no matter where one gets to look.
There is the effort to anchor one’s self
having lost all of one’s own moorings.
Too much that chanced to happen
only served to blow one away.
Divide whatever it is into pieces
so that there is something to play with.
Something to rearrange
in various tedious ways.
Life is all about the wanting
of what one can never really have.
Though one sometimes gets to star gaze
at some of the icons of envy.
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260616D
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There are many more ways now
to erase one’s own identity,
having found it totally useless
as to any meaningful access.
It all leaves one at that final point
of shredding one’s sense of belonging,
having failed to find something
to validate any other possibilities.
So many different ways
for disposing of a body,
but it is harder as to the face
as that is far too recognizable.
Everything is always do it yourself,
and that means playing around
with the left over parts,
that will never quite fit together.
None of that implying anything
about anyone actually getting killed
by anything other than natural causes,
but it is about various ways to die.
Once upon a time it was all about
the who and what of wanting to know.
Then later on it all changes to being about
the who and what of not wanting to know.
Something similar to falling over
after having climbed up to the barrier
only to find the other side is not there,
causing that desperate getting away again.
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260616E
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Not being able to live a dream,
there is always a last ditch desire
to live a favorite nightmare
if you can find that much mercy.
Mercy is extremely rare nowadays,
and they make you beg for it,
for a very long time
before even entering into consideration.
Something to turn to, or into,
in the battle against perpetual boredom:
substituting bizarre ingredients
for everything that one has not got.
Prepare the list of whatever remained
among what was salvaged:
trying to find some clues there
as to what the meaning might have been.
Clearly you will never be
anything that you ever wanted to be,
so you try on various other costumes
to see if anything might actually fit.
Something might feel somewhat better
than any of the obsolete uniforms
that you once used to wear
in make believe play at being ordinary.
None of it was what I really wanted,
and there were names on that list too,
that I tried to fill in some of the blanks with
before I learned to tear up those forms.
Learning to never marry into anything
that is only looking to make you obsolete
as to your content and your style,
even if it serves some useful purpose.
You always get told who and where you are
by mens of which doors are closed,
and which ones are meant to ruin you
as to anything else that might have mattered.
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