| Poems, Prose - 180917 - September 18th, 2017 (Revised from notes found in a file.) |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/09/18 20:26 |
180917G Prose Fragment
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It is something similar to being impaled by one or another tyrant. Held to
writhe on the point of what it might have been like to really know, whateve
r it is you could dream about knowing. The sort of anything of some you and
I, imaginable but not permitted to be more specific. Imagined in a world I
know nothing of, but feel that I once visited in some romance novel of acc
umulated impossibilities. The sort of place where no one really lives and n
o one ever dies. There was a time when I would have dared to put a face, or
even a name, into that type of fiction, but I have had to give that up the
way the sky gives up rain. The loss of moisture from the corners of my eye
s has been far too radical. It makes one look more worn out and infinitely
foolish. A sign of more weakness than is tolerated by the system.
Foolish for seeking anything other than new forms of suffering. It all come
s down to the sorts of pleasures that you would not want from me, and that
I would not get from you. All of that ending in an idea that is as cruel in
its persistence as any physical memory of any memorable intimacies. Why so
me seek to put an end to various forms of thought, with a premature finalit
y. The effort to escape the flag waving sky, and all of that emptiness. Alw
ays the same sad blues. No fanfare and no promises
It is not what you have, but it is what you do not have that causes you to
tumble head over heels into conditions of disgrace. It is the unexpected su
rprise that takes you down, as would a powerful rip tide, undertow. The pul
ling down of exhausted swimmers, who are barely able to tread water, having
already been worn down by the system. They simply disappear beneath the wa
ves. The more you are knocked down, the more terrified you become of trying
to get up again. More afraid of getting the dirt kicked in over top of you
, as an added measure.
No one ever wins until the other side stops fighting. Though mostly the onl
y fight that you ever really know is the one with no winning of it. Of all
the forms of disaster that leave a feeling of death permeating every corner
of vacant structures, you were the most difficult to endure. More difficul
t for the fact of forever running away from one heartbreak to another. Reas
sured only by the one fact that eventually, as everyone supposedly knows, o
ne feels nothing at all. A certain fate that always comes sooner or later.
There are no other reassurances. Nothing to really count on.
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You know that you are done, when you do not hope anymore. When everything s
eems far too tragic to really talk about. So you fill in the gaps in conver
sations with increasingly impersonal speculations. It adds up to nothing at
all beyond an emphasis of persistent boredom. Boredom with your own condit
ion and with the status quo of failed anticipations. The only thing that yo
u really learned was about your own insignificance. Something that comes fr
om being given the brush off, and endless number of times. You find out you
never thought or said one winning word, in all those worthless sounds that
spilled from your cracked open head, where it hit the statistics.
You wipe up the mess that you have become. Another stain that will not come
out. The way a name marks you for life. Nothing to be proud of because eve
ryone wants something else. You were never on target as to what they really
wanted, from you or anyone else. You never got it straight and you cannot
live in those rules. They always take more than they give. Always trying to
take everything that you ever really wanted. They never let you in and you
have joined the legions of the forgotten. It is always a mistake that you
had no way to avoid making that tells you what it is all about. Everyone ha
s to be responsible, but no one will answer your questions. Everything is a
nother rain check anyway. The very same will happen tomorrow. Eventually yo
u will give up trying.
Your mind overflows having become a septic tank of useless information. You
perish in the flood of everything that you cannot be, cannot know, and alw
ays wanted. You have lost the strength to dream of ever really being wanted
in any way that you might ever really choose to wish for. Your candles all
blown out, having brought nothing more than the passing of time.
Every door you tried to open someone else chose to close. You never could f
ind the one you really wanted. Having been programmed to always try to sett
le for something else, and always with less than you came with. The way tha
t flesh is flayed from the bones. Everything you were led into that had not
hing to do with you took something out of you, and took something out on yo
u. The feeling of insects already crawling on your skin and rodents gnawing
on your exposed fingers. The uncomfortable feeling of always being in the
wrong place at the wrong time. Finding out that you were not really wanted
anywhere you ever really wanted to be, and that you do not know any one. At
least not anyone who would make even one iota of real difference to your m
iserable existence, as you keep getting calculated out.
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You never told me anything that really mattered in the make believe game wh
ere we all pretend that we are all really friends. I know you saved all the
places for someone else. I know that you feigned the usual interest in wha
t you did not care about. I do not want to show my face anymore. Knowing th
at it will betray me as having become disappointed. That would give you a f
eeling of total victory. It makes me feel the same as any traitor might fee
l, as to refusing the given orders as to how we are forced to behave.
I could never make things happen by saying the word. The syllables would tu
rn against me as to anything that I could ever want. The alphabet would con
spire to betray me as to anything I could ask for. Every dream I ever gave
voice to was destroyed by the sound, the way worlds are destroyed by detona
tions. Silence made no difference to anything at all. Now I do not even lis
ten to myself any more as that too has become merely another parody.
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180917I
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The time was spent the way everything gets spent. Spent until it runs out.
Spent not having found anything more than going around from one end to the
other. Something that makes it all the same lump of clay. Clay that could n
ever be shaped into anything at all. Hardening into stone. Stone that gets
chiselled at. The chisels carving initials into bone the way youth carves i
nitials into trees. There is always a blank space, to be filled in by other
s, long after the fact.
The wind rumbles east. It sounds like an angry god. A hurried machine. A ca
rriage on a rough road headed who knows where. Eventually whatever is cast
adrift is driven up onto one or another shore. Thrown up against the rocks
and you swallow anything rotten that numbs the pain. Whatever numbs it at l
east a little. The pain as to having lost so very much that there seems not
hing known beyond the losing of it all.
When you are dead you search the crypts for other forms of afterlife. You h
ave decomposed into a process of surrender. A process of being pulled under
, against any type of struggle. Never having really gotten up beyond being
haunted by the living. Those who shake you from door mats into being the so
rt of dust that makes your eyes moist. There is the knowing that doors clos
e and almost everything is a secret, kept safely within.
Needles leaving no needle marks. The damage done makes for brokenness than
that of terminal addict deprived of a desperate fix. Never really fixed up,
but always in another fix. Always getting fixed. Everything having been st
erilized with disinterest. Never really repaired. Only broken up, and kept
broken up. Broken down and simply made too broken.
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