151017A
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Wind chatter howl,
of mournful sounding messages,
sonar cries
hunting in the depths
where torn fragments dwell.
Everything always evolved
to tearing each other apart.
We are no different in design
from the beaks, claws, jaws,
that break and rend for meanings.
A language between mouthfuls,
of sucking and chewing on,
various body parts,
becoming syllables
and then bits of alphabets.
There is always the time
that is entirely made up
as to various complicated ways
that a soul is consumed
to being a few cries in any wilderness.
Even if I showed you the wounds,
it would make no difference.
The violence would be the same,
inflicted in the same ways,
without giving it a second thought.
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151017B
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I am not in the game,
but if I understand it right,
you are still trying to play me.
The stakes were never right,
for me to really want to wager
more than my usual fold and lose.
That is what lets me slip away
before anyone finds me out
as to anything I really wanted.
The game is always over
when it starts to get serious,
and our pawns start to cross the field.
A land of rumours,
that serve to erase any of the facts
over writing, writing off and out.
It is easier to get things here,
as long as one does not want them,
but wanting is a different matter.
Best to want something impossible,
as that opens a wider spectrum
of real possibilities.
I can give you a place on the list,
along with everything else
that chances to remain out of reach.
Presumably that is all you came for,
sprinkling it with the usual
glitter of sparkling lies.
Everything else eventually wears out,
falls apart, in one way or another,
keeping my collections growing.
A life easily becomes a museum
of lost and failed situations
that once seemed easily within reach.
I seem to collect broken things,
when they resemble something
that I know more intimately.
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151017C
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There is what we are brow beaten with,
and what we are beaten around the ears with,
that is meant to keep us from knowing.
That leaves what no one is telling,
as to anything desperately needed to be known,
and thus becoming mysteries to let go of.
Why we like to let go of balloons
until they disappear
right smack into any god's eye.
I thought I might be set free by now
into some sort of obsessively ordinary life,
but that seems as distant as an eternity.
One of the reasons that I envy some artists
who have made a recognized success at it,
is their accumulating of their selective obsessions.
They find novel ways to defeat their own cravings
for various types of novelty,
contentedly dying into the same old plot.
I always wanted much more than that,
so I always seem to end up with much less,
and wondering how I ended up so cheated.
What most refer to as “love” is much the same.
An ordinary sort of common sense obsession,
seeking mutual consent forms, and witnesses.
Most of what happens in life is contrived,
to cause one's self to give up on such affairs,
regardless of what new guise they appear in.
In that sense one is inevitably poorly spent,
being of no real account in anyone else's life.
and years taken, as passed, in that manner.
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