190119A
-----------
World a white paper
snowed in sea
of trying to write
colours between the lines
of stale armies.
The birds have fled
to shelters,
abandoning crusts
and fence posts,
fearing paper cut jive.
Wounded plans
hang on last year's memories,
as the footprints advance,
taking no prisoners,
this time around.
Wind sweeping over,
frost symbols
encrypted on glass,
telling you more about today
than the headline news.
-----------------------------
190119B
-----------
We lost touch
after having exposed ourselves
to erosive particles
of intercepted communications.
Standing accused
of intent,
and having violated the laws
of small talk.
Getting the death sentence,
for giving our words
personal meanings,
in our private system of truth.
Could have been overlooked
if we had fucked each other,
claiming nothing in common
outside of instinctive brutality.
Stir up the flesh pot,
in an otherwise bland life,
interspersed with mindless bouts
of shopping.
People always inventing
new ways to die to each other,
under the faux banners
of one or another claimed purpose.
Cats trying to do the right thing,
before it is done to them,
get their mice squeaking
terrified squeaks of freedom.
-----------------------------------
190119C
-----------
All day the truth takes its tumble
down onto the landscape,
burials under a thick blanket.
That immersion therapy,
of the fictional soul,
chilling you out
into an absolute nothingness
that offers no return tickets
on any magic bus,
to anywhere you would want to go.
They put a chalk mark around you
no matter what you do.
You get to watch
while someone shoves apples
hard into the mouths
of squealing little piglets.
They force you to watch movies
of taffy apple Sundays,
but all that you can be is a freak
captive at a fairground.
You get to learn
a thousand new ways to get hurt,
and come back for more,
because that is all there is to do.
You skim through a personal catalogue
of everything wrong,
trying to find something
that someone you might actually like,
and might actually really want,
to do to you.
Bankruptcy and isolation
comprise a constant threat level,
as you half watch the clown acts
that have taken over six o'clock
novelty acts passing as evening news.
Everything you turn to
provides a new motivation
for one or another obsession
with new rules of order
that permit no debate.
There is something about you
that simply fails to float,
on all that heavy water.
Even that momentary rush
takes you deeper,
and no real getting out
from under the pressure,
of the crush depth challenge,
pressing your dreams
beneath its steamroller push.
---------------------------------
190119D
-----------
Watching as it is broken down
and chopped up.
Left to word salads,
make believe knowing something
is going around,
but you have not caught any yet.
There are people waiting
for signals -
Looking up to the heavens,
saying: “there is no other way”:
“pack a bag and go”.
Ready, set, go, to the finish line.
Another emptying out,
of heads, lives, and circumstances,
where people disappear,
leaving no postcard trails:
rumours of happiness
and almost no one remembers.
Calling wrong numbers,
and then wrong numbers call you.
Someone made a divine plan,
and left you guessing,
outside the door,
as to what was going on inside.
Nothing to actually win,
but there is a skill testing question
that proves impossible to answer.
You end up throwing out clues
to where they all disappear
across distant event horizons.
The I love you,
you bore me, blues,
loops,
into I won't come around again,
to the I bore you,
you bore me, blues.
Random pages,
blindly torn from diaries,
all say the same thing.
Scribes painstakingly crafting
illuminated manuscripts
litter the streets with warnings.
You can make a religion
out of absolutely anything,
if you can draft an agreement,
and get others to sign on
to a mumble of false promises
as to a weather change.
----------------------------
270119A
------------
Tried to stay in line,
waiting in lines,
and it never got me anywhere
except falling behind
still waiting in line.
Futile gestures
made across the line.
We are still playing
red rover, red rover,
asking someone over.
They pull away if fear
of being knocked down,
by whatever it is
that is knocking us down,
one by one.
Who will cross the line,
and who is next in line,
when someone falls.
We go forward,
as it if means something.
Some of us always craving
to shake loose
from more of the same lines,
forming into lines
and getting nowhere.
The same old mule train
is winding its way
up the same old mountainside,
in the same old line,
and breaking under the load.
-----------------------------------
270119B
-----------
They come at you,
then veer away
headed to other targets.
Forever the same
brain wreck states of mind.
The ancient serpent
continues to bite its tail,
becoming a data stream noose
of ideological strangulations,
and then they cut you down.
The revolution someone dreamt up
is long over before it begins.
Anticipated in the advertising,
streamed across the bandwidth,
until forced into your throat.
They would never let you choose
even if you had a real choice,
from among that vast spectrum
of absolute impossibilities,
that you are given to contemplate.
Takes near to a lifetime
to figure that one out,
but then it is over,
and it makes no difference,
that you were marginally clever.
The puzzle was invented
merely to keep you occupied.
That means the same as possessed,
and possession really is
nine tenths of any law.
You are pushed to wondering
if anyone ever remembers you
that you ever actually cared about,
in between those obstinate rumours
about whomever you no longer know.
Some became possessed by others,
and there is a sense of revolt
as to that sort of used merchandise.
Merely second hand flesh
that chose the flesh markets.
We all drift in various ways,
ending up washed up somewhere,
more battered and beaten down,
left to finding new meaning
in various meaningless sounds.
It is what we cannot say to anyone
that could fill countless volumes.
Trying to find something in between
to fill in the endless blanks,
as to having to explain ourselves.
-----------------------------------------
270119C
-----------
Potatoes and sour cream dip,
down into containment,
of the hazardous ingredients
of a left over party,
stripped of spontaneous moments.
Same as being emergent
from a social toxic waste dump
of perpetuating lost causes.
Places where you used to plan,
for some sort of prison break.
You feel sold down the river,
by your imaginary friends.
Closed in on by that social circle
that is being shrunk down
to sexually smaller every time.
You try to spare them,
knowing they cannot take any truth,
even in small doses.
Their allergic reactions to it all
define a different course of treatment.
You tread very gingerly,
around their fragile illusions,
not wanting to shatter anything
as it all heads into the red zone,
across dangerous subject lines.
You collapse into a singularity,
that wants to be an outburst,
tearing away the curtain of darkness,
but stop yourself short of it all,
asking someone to pass the butter.
-----------------------------------------
I try, sometimes vainly, to spare the desolation "angels" that I chance to
know, or meet, along the way. It is a difficult task, and I am not always p
articularly good at it. I simply do not want them to ever experience any of
what I have experienced, because I know that the pain that they would feel
, in doing so, would be too much for them. I try to assure that they remain
as nearly as naïve as they arrived when they leave. It is the only wa
y I really have to protect them from what to them could prove to be infinit
e harm.
|
|