| Poems: 140717 - July 14th, 2017 |
|
| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/07/14 14:00 |
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Subject: Poems: 140717 - July 14th, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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030717A
-----------
Shove a rod
down the barrel.
Shoot off a load.
Spark it.
Strike a match.
Fire in the hole.
An empty shell.
Into the breach.
Feel the action.
Trigger squeeze.
Steady aim.
Always on target.
----------------------
030717B
-----------
Food for thought.
Digging for answers.
Feeds the worms.
Hungry worms,
consuming everything,
that you dig up.
------------------------------
040717A
-----------
A passion for freedoms.
In places that do not seem to exist.
Wishing alien entanglements.
I read about them in books.
Before such lives were forbidden.
Now I do not know what to do.
No word from my own tribe.
I do not fit your mould.
I am not in your categories.
We danced together.
We dreamt forbidden things.
We created symbols of desire.
They have taken my identity away.
They turned it into a little white card.
A number made to stand in line.
They terrify me of the day to day.
The fear of robot lives.
Worlds apart, without options.
Denied any permissions.
They do not let me enter into it.
Something failed to conform.
I seem to be that weed.
The one rooted out of the garden.
I feel yanked out by the roots.
They whittle away my substance.
They transubstantiated me into a ghost.
They attack and destroy my haunts.
They took away everyone.
All those I ever really wanted to know.
Now no one really knows me.
It is easy to be despised.
Hatred comes from ordinary people.
I am forced to join the resistance.
Harbouring that secret anguish.
All that endless starting over.
Never chancing on any choices.
The nature of every futile pursuit.
The struggle to rise above it.
It only bogs down with failed attempts.
They wanted something.
I have no idea what it is they wanted.
It probably would not matter if I knew.
The result is the same.
No matter which way you try to turn it.
That is the object of any such lesson.
Love becomes an illusion.
A creation that is conflicted desires.
No one wanted what I ever wanted.
Tempus fugit into penniless decay.
Burial under pointless truisms.
Overwhelmed by monumental tasks.
The truth is always the ugliest thing.
Something that you can hold on to.
That too is too much struggle.
-------------------------------------
040717B
------------
There is always more damage.
Eventually you drop carrier signal.
No longer being strong enough.
You are never strong enough.
Disbelieving everything I say.
You contradict all my whispers.
They leave you behind.
The mud rises up and over.
Something pulls you down.
The others were all more successful.
They were destined to be the quick.
You were always tagged as dead.
Full speed crash debris.
A closure of the information highway.
Multiple casualties being reported.
You hurt somebody's feelings again.
You are not careful enough.
You should never upset other people.
Starkly exposed as wanting.
They always want to take away.
Left to anything that is refused.
There is no one left on the list.
No real possibilities to address.
Everyone fled to better options.
That trap did not catch anything.
Nothing came your way.
It is said you used the wrong bait.
You try to find an escape route.
You hate the image in your mirror.
Seven more years of bad luck.
-------------------------------------
040717C
-----------
Breaking down
the way wet cardboard breaks down,
taking all those shadow punches.
You could be nothing but bruises,
gone deathly green, purple black and blue,
and no one would ever notice it.
They keep packaging you up,
only to send you away
to anywhere that you do not want to go.
There is no being looked after
in all that mass of tiny details,
that would infect your pulped mind.
A pocket poor discard,
abandoned to long distance humour,
cut off from any local exchange.
No real sense of any destination,
all the streets look more and more the same,
forgotten cradle to unknown grave.
------------------------------------------
040717D
-----------
Everything clashes,
leaving plenty of nothing.
Too much threat,
and no real protection.
Threat levels always rising,
until the warnings are ignored.
Whatever you try to build up,
always ends up going down.
Hit up against the electric fence,
and hardly half way.
Another shock
that brings you down.
The mind is convulsed,
and you end up a little emptier.
No one takes any responsibility
for any implied actions.
Tried to find a way around,
all the problems of being poor.
Run over it again,
and history always explodes.
Nothing really grows,
in those sterile environments.
Conflicting values
and everything classified secret.
You feel busted down,
to being born was a false start.
You end up talking to yourself,
in a language no one understands.
They gloss over the textual surface,
plucking out common memes.
Everything else is discarded
as potato peels and banana skins.
----------------------------------------
140717A
------------
They always remind you,
that people get eaten alive.
Someone bested you in the lists,
and you were put to shame.
New ways to be torn apart,
that do not require forensic analysis.
It is always a bad thing
to resemble the wrong people.
A worse thing to be associated
with the wrong people.
You seem to have lost your way
and could not find it again.
Enveloped in darkness,
only to find there are monsters there.
They are always made of smiles,
and disarming phrases.
You were seen out riding,
on the wrong horse.
They would always nag you,
as to the quality of your metal.
The assassin came as a friend,
to cut off your right hand.
The squire you humbly served,
handed you poison to ingest.
How many times can one die,
only to wake up to the same faces.
Played out as fool to kings,
nose to grindstone, and with bells on.
You were promised a feast,
and found only bones.
Everything picked clean,
and nothing spared.
Then you wonder what was the point,
of going from green to brittle.
The branch long ago broken off,
and thrown into the flames.
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