181118A
-----------
They murder something
new every day.
You become the voyeur,
who gets to watch,
as whatever you love
is made to die,
right there in front of you.
Blame it on seasonality,
and other common forms
of eternally recurrent nihilism.
That sense of becoming
more and more wiped,
into a blank stare
of broken down to submission.
They ruin it all
to show you that they can
ruin it all.
Only a matter of time
before they tear you down,
along with everything else
you built up around you.
The memories of any of it
seem a pointless burden,
same as a collection of keys
that no longer fit any locks
in any real doors.
A huge opening up,
to nothing.
-------------
181118B
-----------
Always stretching and reaching,
for the good times to happen,
the way a kid stretches and reaches
for the cookie jar.
Piling things up,
trying to get a foothold
with a grip on something,
to clamber up to where it begins.
That strange totem
stacking of maybe possibilities,
only to take a tumble,
to sore and beat.
Head swimming with sadness,
and feeling
that broken fish bowl feeling,
of being all wet on the floor.
Hard landings,
and nothing ever comes near
to bring anything nearer
to actual reach.
------------------------------------------
181118C
-----------
It is all make believe,
and careful what you are made into
believing.
Those concerns with approvals,
in a lifetime of being processed.
Different artificial flavors and colours
making for pleasant bullshit
decorated with sweet dreams.
Lap it all up, without complaint,
the way a cat licks cream.
Learn to mix properly.
Whatever it was has all gone sour,
leaving a curdling scream
as to how it all turned.
If the state was not so guilty
you could turn into state's evidence,
as to what it all really means.
A pointless exercise
that would only take up the time,
the way most things take time.
Best to not know,
and glue back that fake smile.
You didn't really think did you ?
Then think again
if you still dare to think something,
knowing every thought is betrayed
as soon as it means anything.
You did not really think did you
that they would ever let you in
after detecting a desire.
Perish the thought,
and any others juxtaposed
thought in relation.
No matter how you pull it together,
you can be sure it will all fly apart,
leaving your long time acquaintances
of the universal expansion of failure.
You know you couldn't raise them up,
anymore than you can raise up skeletons
into chorus lines of dancers.
Feeling it right through and through
the thin skinned envelope of flesh,
down to chattering bones
as to no one left to dance with.
More and more of whatever it is
that you will not be doing,
in that slow breaking down
into more futility and monuments.
Everything being inscribed
with regrets.
You know you will keep searching
for that missing epigraph.
A sort of summary statement
made up of caution words,
as to what anything was about.
________________________
191118A
-----------
Could feel much worse,
but have always felt better.
The difficult measure
as to where it all stands and falls.
Civilizations came and went
in much the same way.
Their legacies,
their own piles of rubble.
Accumulations of bad endings,
stitched together into something.
A patchwork Forget-Me-Not
of faded blues.
Wave a makeshift flag,
a rag as if there is a parade.
A second coming circus
back to town again.
It sucks the life out,
leaving venom in the blood.
Count up the crosses
set up across a wasteland.
In another world,
I once knew something,
but here it no longer matters,
what it was that was known.
Trapped on this side,
everything is different.
Now I am really on the run,
with nowhere to get away to.
-----------------------------------
191118B
-----------
I used to have a sense of identity,
but they replaced that
with a label or two.
The sort that you can dispense
on little printed cards,
as convincing lies
about what it all really means.
Nothing of your own choosing.
Wafer thin fragments
dispensed sacramentally,
with cloistered blessings.
Thin bits of imprinted flesh.
The blood flows unstaunched
from the wallet,
sacred heart of the matter,
becoming perpetual penance.
Give us this day our daily debt,
and for some it goes well
if they can stand the roundabout.
The roundabout memories
of childhood innocence
serving as a sort of preparation
inclusive of learning the fear
of being pushed over and off.
The amazement
that they believe in themselves,
playing at being statues,
exactly the way that you see them
always taking up the same poses.
Chiselled from the same stone,
to seem strangely impervious
to worms and rot.
Sometimes there is the feeling
that it is all an intolerable charade,
making it increasingly difficult
to continue the habitual gestures,
that the rituals require.
The deformity being felt
right down deep into the bone,
anticipating a punishing time of it.
Playing Post Office again,
and failing in Kindergarten ways
to make any sort of connection,
part of you wants to wriggle out
of any such straitjacket,
if only you could be Houdini,
making an escape\
to becoming someone's idol.
----------------------------------
Alright, these little demons are ready to be born. Imperfect and twisted creatures that they be, let loose upon the world.
|
|