| Poems: 170617 - June 17th, 2017 |
|
| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/06/17 21:38 |
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Subject: Poems: 170617 - June 17th, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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170617A
------------
Maintaining the museum
of various things
from a previous time of life.
Each artifact having a meaning
as to a specific episode
forming a kind of history.
Various eras in the evolution,
of a personal civilization.
A lost tribe culture,
with only one remaining member
and a growing list of mysteries.
Sift through precious debris
for what is suggestive and symbolic.
Indicators of varied desires
without the critical analysis.
The display case
housing various votive objects
of private significance.
An archaeology of remains
under emotional sediment
saved up for someone's future study.
Scraping away the tears
exposes the layers.
There are inscriptions
on some of the monuments.
---------------------------------
170617B
------------
We sometimes hang on
to anything
that in any way resembles
what our hopes once were.
Without that
the void would advance
to swallow up the past
into a final gasp of loss.
The plans held safe
as if construction will begin
at any moment
before the end of the world.
The world always ends
in a different place,
at a different time,
for each one of us.
There are rituals
that can be performed,
as sympathetic acts,
meant as consolation.
---------------------------
170617C
-----------
The winning number
never came up.
Playing a numbers game
racking up losses.
Days dragging their feet
sweltering at midday
in that nagging feeling
that it should be evening.
Morning comes too soon,
the night being flooded out
with zombie dreams,
and other unpleasant situations.
Zombies assigning routines
that automatons would hate,
in chaotic production facilities,
engaged in mindlessness pursuits.
No way to get away,
even when the eyes are closed,
playing dead
to everything too ordinary.
I was always waiting for you,
but I still do not know anything
about who you really are,
beyond my perpetual loneliness.
I thought you might at least haunt me,
with more than habitual formalities,
that limit everything so severely
to what workers are allowed to do.
There was no way I could
ever come up with that kind of price.
Then you said that you did not want
something as marked down as I am.
I felt I was melting away
into shapeless, formless, grey.
A thing perpetually forced in and out,
by the others around it.
The belief in any improvements
has perished away in the interval.
There was no chance to stop there
to formally bury any of the dead.
A social siege is relentlessly surrounds
with cardboard cutout colleagues.
One tries to keep the safety on
the trigger of one's mouth.
Recycling conversations
that seem to come out of cartons
as something needing assembly
using common social tools.
Various unsatisfying results
that are tossed quickly away,
having given a desperate try
in a chanced impulse.
There must be an evil genius
behind the design of the maze.
It has no exit,
and it never leads to anywhere.
-------------------------------------
170617D
------------
They laugh
that the monkeys all know
how to do it.
It makes for a feeling
of absolute revolt,
entirely against it all again.
There must be other ways
to kill each and every urge
in a more pleasant manner.
Wondering which part will fail,
condemning the mechanism
to a final spasm.
None of it ever really ends up
as any actual choice,
other than breaking away.
Remaining would lock in
to repeating the same motions
in rapid successions forever.
There would be nothing between
those damply unpleasant episodes
of pale marshmallow flesh.
----------------------------------
170617E
------------
Heard the war bells tonight.
The one side is stripping away
all the slogans of the other.
The way they are separating us
there is sure to be a bad fight,
between the one side and the other.
Soldiers that they make that way
never grant quarter or comfort
to any who try to cross over.
It seems there is no freedom left
on the one hand or the other
but the battle lines are hardened.
Wonder where the world has gone
that lived in poetry and song,
as something most of us believed in.
I wanted to believe in the old ways,
but that got me branded traitor
as a monsters craving romance.
--------------------------------------
170617F
-----------
They turn it into a hunger
that translates badly
into various types of extremes.
Only something extreme,
can satisfy the meaning.
You get tiny occasional tastes
to whet your appetites,
before they show you the absence
of anything substantial,
leaving the dog without a bone.
Random insertions follow,
in ways that always increase
the lack of satisfaction.
The people in advertisements
are so much luckier.
They never have to work hard,
to get it all to fall into place.
Suggestions that they are winning
all the unofficial prizes,
that it is always mostly about.
Some people have storybook lives
to make it seem as if everyone can,
and they often charge money
to let others into their peep shows
as their guested voyeurs.
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