| Poems: 040617 - June 4th, 2017 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/06/04 13:09 |
040617A
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Hands of time
that strangle our throats
into frustrated gasps.
New ways of made derelict
of any actual options
in all the new catalogues.
Always another chance to pick
what you cannot ever have.
Caving in to playing
under the pressures of boredom
a prisoner is always alone
no matter who a prisoner is with.
Threat levels are rising,
on a planet that melts away
to any sign of movement
as it only brings the heat.
Break down of association
into chorus line refrain.
Whichever way you go,
adds something to the loss.
Too brave and too free
and all the wrong implications,
so they keep tearing you away
to ticket stub existence.
Always too much to say,
with no way to say it.
Reduced to ciphers
that have to pass as poetry.
Glossolalia madness,
breaking radio silence.
Mayday signals signalling
that perpetual sinking feeling
about what goes down.
Total paralysis of meaning
never making any breakthroughs
as to all those enemy lines.
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040617B
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The submission to ideas
never worth its salt,
as any category of mourning
what you dreamt of killing.
You were sacrificed
right down to the bones
that you keep rattling around
in hopes of some luck.
Dictatorships begin in alphabets
that they seek to control
and arrange in precise order
of first and last place.
Making your clay self
desire a return to the mud
away from hard baked voids
waiting to be filled.
Permanent impressions
seem best to be forgotten,
as the total betrayals
that they always become.
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040617C
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They can create a wanting
of all of the wrong things,
that you never got a chance at,
having to give up.
The perpetual shakedown,
as to all the sacrifices
that inevitably buy you nothing,
under a cold blanket of stars.
They row their own boats
gently downstream,
as if that is the only direction
that anyone can ever go.
You look for an invitation
every time you check the mail,
as to a final way out
of dining with disappointments.
The list empties itself
of any suitable candidates,
in respect to a vacancy
as to the position of lover.
You file your mistakes
into the appropriate categories,
searching for new ones
that you know nothing about.
There is that worn out feeling
of having dragged yourself around
all the available circuits
of that same condition of boredom.
You never really believed
romance was ever really like that.
Always chalk lining something up
to bitter facts of experience.
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040617D
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Always urged to disinvestment
as to anything you chance to love,
even in the most marginal ways.
An illusion being given
that you are actually going somewhere
that you would want to end up at.
The destination not on any map,
you can perish the vaguest thought
of ever going that far out again.
Sunday afternoon hits you in the face,
making you want to get away,
without suffering more sermons.
It is hard to really hold on
to the discarded remains of yourself,
left in their condition of abandonment.
It sometimes seems it would be easier
to simply trash yourself out,
than it is to comply with any orders.
They do not let people anymore,
so you cannot really find a way around
those newly implemented restrictions.
That rag doll feeling
of being merely recycled rag stuffing,
torn out in the beast's jaws.
It is the same as throwing a party
that no one actually came to,
and then boasting about the guest list.
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040617E
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All semblance of difference
has been officially cancelled,
by the authorities.
Whatever it really was,
they do not allow that anymore,
and they are cutting you short.
Did you look at your own palm
to examine your revised life line,
annotated in its margins.
Those ghosts of significance
that you once knew,
have left you one by one.
Not one of them ever materialized
as anything more than superficial
expressions of habit.
You thought you had something
that might in fact be going,
when you were cut loose.
The fact of never having learned
whatever it is that you do not know,
about the rising costs of living.
That is how the world ends,
not with a bang, but with a whimper,
into no more than helter skelter.
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