020617A
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There is no information available,
as to what was really meant,
or as to whom it meant anything to.
That passes as the persistence of erasure
that insists on creating blank trauma.
The entire context eradicated,
where the details were teased away,
made into anatomical specimens
for some type of more objective study.
Nothing more than a careful culling
of mares from stallions.
Sunlight floods the empty landscape,
translating decay into scabs.
Beaks pecking at parched surfaces,
in assumptions that seed has been spilled.
Solemn gatherings of the chosen few
who believe trauma is essential to growth.
They examine various scars as indications
that there is some type of story there
that might seem worth the telling.
Once they have it recorded
they can play it over and over again.
Engines of progress never yield,
to anything that chances to get in the way,
and that renders additional justification.
The carnage simply continues,
as something more to plough under
in terms of that perpetual over turning,
meant to see what chances to turn up.
Nothing ever grows in that type of dirt,
but you can always try to read into it,
whatever was crushed between the lines,
if you find it falls into the light.
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020617B
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There was something
that I did not know anything about
that I know that I forgot to do,
but then there always is,
something exactly like that,
that you can condemn me for.
That is the only sort of place
that you reserved for me,
where you thought I would fit in,
as to all those differences
that I could never actually avoid
becoming another victim of.
It is never very much more
than a sort of afterlife,
that one has no real choice about
having been forced to die into it,
making for all the regrets
as to what passed as consciousness.
I never asked to be what I am,
according to various descriptions
that each vary as to the details,
mostly borrowed from fictions
that chanced to attract
the only memorable attention.
No doubt that you have forgotten
anything that I am reminded of.
That always deepens the incision,
and spreads it wider,
so that the monsters can scurry out,
to their new found freedoms.
Various sharpened insertions,
carving away the romance
from any potential malingering,
where it might have remained
in any festering wounds,
needing to be bled again.
In that sense it all impoverishes
leaving nothing much to be said,
as to anything that laws allow,
to span across forbidden zones.
Too much having been lost
into the dark of the abyss.
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020617C
------------
When you look for what is perfect,
as to all the right flaws,
it tends to all get pressed out of shape,
so that nothing remains recognizable,
beyond sequential rejection notices
marking the trail,
not unlike lamp posts or flag poles
where anything can chance to hang
in the context of any uprising.
The rebellion is always noted,
and the punishment always assured,
as to another breakdown in the action.
Your answer was not the right answer,
that they wanted to hear from you,
and something says it never will be,
so they keep you guessing,
as to where to aim and how to pull
as everything ends taken down.
You slid through somewhere,
in the vain hopes of arranging a meeting.
There was no such luck
in any of those given instances.
That always serves as a clear indication
as to how absolutely futile it all was.
The barricades seem to run forever,
where you find you cannot ever get by
and you cannot ever break through.
They had you fooled all along,
even if you resisted
any attempts to make you feel clever.
Lucky if you still recognize yourself,
after being completely broken off
from any particular instance
that would have made any difference
to the impact of dictates and destinies
imprinted into your flesh.
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020617D
------------
The natives are restless
in a dark state, of mind.
The eyes conducting surveillance,
while practising disinterest
shooting off casual glances
between the privacy disclaimers
littering the streets.
Nothing came together,
and it proved insane to even try,
drawing a circle 'round
any stray sort of thing.
The prevailing condition,
the conditions of abandon
in any contract's fine print.
There are few safe places left
that one can hope to die into.
The time tightly regulated
and always running out.
Nothing ever really comes in
from all the forever cold
in a season belonging to the heat.
A new isolation ward,
where no one comes to visit.
These are times of epidemic,
that know no actual cures.
Creates a more intense craving
for some prosthetic dreaming
in a plug and play life.
No point sending out invites
that all return to sender.
These are the times of answering
to no one really there.
Even the shallows have gone dry,
making everything go brittle,
in the persistence of the flood.
No point trying to make sense
of what you can never control,
crashing into left alone.
In this time of disinterest
only the Devil may care,
while the rest are practising
variations on make believe.
A broken marionette's dance
to a newly crippled tune.
What was that theory of purpose
that always cost too much.
A forever tangle of tying loose ends,
as if attention to vague details
might actually set you free.
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020617E
-----------
There is that terrible sinking feeling
of wanting to take a trip away,
purely on the basis of pocket change.
Leave a note on the door,
about gone somewhere to feel safe,
secretly tired of scraping
the same illusions.
Only torturers have an easy time,
having to do nothing,
discovering the fatal side of boredom
takes a long time, in lower doses.
Broken down to squeezing the trigger
on a machine gun of thoughts:
becomes meaningless entertainment.
In a pattern of targeted constraint
there is always one remaining option
of trading a cage
for any tighter spot that can be found,
as to being squeezed in to,
between letters of alphabets
that never form meaningful words.
Trying to write yourself out,
the way a gun exhausts its bullets.
What comes from hoping for liberty,
only to find it is by arrangement,
the application denied,
due to what could not be filled in,
to cover up all that emptiness.
The question always remains
as to who your really good friends are
when it comes down to loneliness,
about what counts and what not.
Wanting to get away from it all
as if you could really meet someone
that is a match to your Steppenwolf.
In the magic theatre
you could never think of killing her,
so that left killing yourself,
in a Russian roulette of one or nought,
as to all that hide and seek, hot and cold,
that once seemed to lead to something
beyond the despising of a lone wolf.
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