| Poems: 140617 - June 14th, 2017 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/06/16 10:20 |
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Subject: Poems: 140617 - June 14th, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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140617A
------------
Each attempted solution,
only brings larger challenges,
to traumatize beyond recognition.
If there is any pattern
then that is what is recognized.
Makes it all fucked up
no matter how you turn it around,
and around, and around,
trying to make sense of it all.
A definite human failing.
Your wheels are kept spinning,
on the same road to nowhere.
There was nothing in the image
that anyone really wanted.
Nothing to barter with.
Nothing found valued enough
to slip through any cracks
into any sort of alternative scene.
Rather than being edited out,
in endless successions,
of systematic erasures.
The way bad words are removed
from trying to fit into lines.
Nothing beyond being defaced
and made otherwise amorphous.
Playing at statues torn down,
to be broken up into pieces.
Metaphors promote the illusion
of it all being harmless.
Nothing inviting
to the lives people talk about.
It is all so unbelievably distant.
The way a month of Sundays
heads toward its destination.
Held worlds apart,
and no star ships,
travelling in any direction,
that would take on a refugee
mental traveller,
with nowhere left to think of
as to any real plans.
------------------------
140617B
-----------
The pall of mass disinterest
shrouds the murky afternoon.
The exceptions all removed,
there seems nothing left.
An erasure of remainder possibilities,
leaving only impossible choices
that echo the null and void
rubber stamps of cancellation.
It no longer matters which hand
wields the implement of destruction.
The result is habitually the same,
and they all serve
only to demonstrate that they follow
in unquestioning succession,
as to an eternal recurrence
the way bad dreams tend to recur.
Everything a long build up
to standing on the edge of that cliff
wondering whether to take a step
into some sort of abrupt finality
where the nothingness is
a definite ending
to too much discovered empty,
and if only it could all be painless.
Many have gone that way,
because they too followed something.
At least in that one final act
they proved their submission.
What they were struggling against
could all be given completely up.
Often in tablet form
and made readily available.
Lingering only brings worries
as to what happens to everything
that one is terrified about.
The sorts of things one worries
no one really wants any of,
and everything getting spoiled
that one does not want wasted
by all of that callous disregard.
Perhaps they are truly loved
only as long as one is conscious
and then only numbers on a page
of paltry and meagre dispositions,
mostly becoming fees
paid to empty out spaces,
as if saying nothing happened
that was of any real significance.
The treasury emptied out,
and everyone deprived equally.
As if everything we now have
is the fetish of another taboo tribe.
Denied membership
due to any personal differences.
Nothing ever deemed appropriate
enough for comfortable possession.
There is a sort of procrastination
that serves to keep some of us alive
for extremely long periods of time.
We tend to delay everything,
as if we can also delay the inevitable,
on some vain, forever broken hope,
that our luck might actually change
to pleasant dreams.
-----------------------
140617C
-----------
None of the people I want to know
actually seem to want to know me.
That becomes a rule of thumb
that serves to guide most decisions
as to hanging around, or hiding out.
It creates an outlaw mentality,
that begins to welcome suspicion.
That taking the place of identity
and spanning each dissolution.
designed on Amoebic principles.
Resisting typical engulfment
becomes an obsessive preoccupation.
The spider sac membrane paralyzes
for the process of sucking out
readying for parasitic eggs.
No ace, no face, no name,
makes it all seem a big misdeal.
Everyone else holds the cards
plus whatever hides up their sleeves,
as to keeping them playing.
It becomes more and more possible
to understand the logic of puncture wounds.
Knowing what happens to people
in terms of their insect lives
encountering the exterminators.
The only games in town
are the ones I cannot stand to play.
Seems that no one is really interested
in anything that I could actually enjoy,
and everyone knows I hate Solitaire.
There is a sadism that works like that,
if it ever works at all.
There are various requisite criteria
that all have to be met
no matter how they change overnight.
Hardest thing is to be the odd out
and never really ever getting even.
You tend to never hear of things,
that everyone else asks you about
when they are long gone and over.
It gloats over you as does the moon,
making faces at interpretation.
Someone manipulated your horoscope
so that the stars spoke to you,
to capture straying attention.
Looking at what amount to the stubs
of the tickets that you tried to buy,
only to realize not one of them took you
where you really wanted to go,
but the blame always falls on you anyway.
You arranged some of your furnishings,
in the desire to find the right lover,
but no suspects were found
who actually fit that description,
as to involvement in any such crime.
It is hardest of all to work on anything
that one really loves,
while being constantly terrified,
as to never knowing any actual ways
of finishing before being ended.
Some people like doing puzzles
purely for the sake of doing them,
and wonder why you lack enthusiasm.
You never had any knack
for turning poetry into Crosswords.
-------------------------------------------
140617D
------------
There is always the fact
of suffering punishing incarceration
within one's self.
They simply do not let you out,
denying you a parole hearing,
as to that new relationship
that you keep wanting to have.
You get to spend your time,
locked up with other inmates.
In that common room
of having nothing in common.
Consenting to breaking the rules
purely out of growing desperation
at the constant state of affairs.
Your quarantine is indefinite,
and nothing is ever approved of.
Perish the thought
that you can do anything
you ever wanted to do, with anyone,
that you ever actually would want,
and do anything with.
That keeps you on the verge
of never wanting to stick around.
You start to crave exit papers
as if they are the only freedom.
Any real liberty requiring permits
that are never issued
despite endless applications.
No one shares your tastes,
and you do not share their tastes
so you both feel caged by that fact.
Something that always happens
strictly by arrangement.
You make a desperate run for it,
at the first chance to get away.
You long ago gave up looking back
knowing no one is behind you.
If you are lucky
you won't get dragged through town
in the same manner as before.
Numbed by the spirit of intoxication
as if that makes it painless enough.
So much of life is transformed
into that desire to get away,
from being a victim of the opposition
in the total futility of any debate,
running over and over again
the same meaningless details
that never have any real significance.
150617A
------------
Some people have the right look,
and they simply look right,
to almost everyone who looks at them.
Others never look right
no matter which mask they put on.
Then it is simply Hollywood,
and not being chosen to play the part.
Your footprint too deep in cement,
and never knew a star to shine on you.
You can always be a legend
if you choose to close your mind
and always remain there,
only venturing out at night
for the sake of all the right comments.
Running hard up against it,
wondering how you got written out
into all of those marginal spaces,
being held in reserve.
Always kept waiting for the moment
until they have you too worn out
to be able to rise to any occasion.
Everything becomes an isolated pursuit
and eventually you start drinking alone,
so you do not have to explain anything
to anyone else, anymore.
Fodder to their appetites
and ending up among ruminants
chewed over and over.
Any candle you thought was your own
burnt out long ago, into cliches,
before you descended into that disgust
at what sometimes goes on in the dark.
All that close, but not close enough stuff,
that never really seems to matter
beyond mocking impossible intimacy.
Part of you wants to defend the impossible,
by extreme means, including poetry.
It always proves entirely indefensible
no matter how you circle around obstacles.
The fly zigzagging about
between various types of decay,
in anticipation of the fly swatter.
You tie yourself up in symbolic terms,
because it feels more real that way,
than pretending to actually be free.
You find you are in all the vacant places
under empty shells in perpetual shell games,
trying to trick yourself into believing
that it can amount to something.
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