080419A
------------
Nothing but cruel,
as to how you despise my body,
and how you hate my mind.
Worse yet,
how I saw through your lies
where you pretended to be nice.
It is a dark kind of world,
dark matters flung around in dark spaces,
deciding who gets what is to be gotten,
as to what concerns any getting in the dark.
Some can never pay, never bleed, quite enough
to get what others get so freely in the dark.
All that tedious light shining,
ends up illuminating brilliant nothing.
The real action is in the dark,
where everything else ends divided up,
in the regular winners and losers game,
of who and what has risen up.
It is all about what rises up,
making everything else tumble down,
into perpetual ruins of history,
where virgins are pierced
by phallic bomb and rocket bursts,
until it all bleeds out.
Easy wins for monkeys,
identical to the other monkeys,
obsessively playing with their bananas,
waiting for the squeeze,
of darkness swallows up,
into little spasms of disgust.
You want nothing to be different,
from how it is decided in the dark.
You don't want anything to escape,
the latest killing fields,
of an urban social slaughter,
continually making dreams die.
-------------------------------------
080419B
-----------
They took away dreams,
then sought to replace them,
with crude foreign bodies
thrust in
the way dirty sticks are thrust in
to vulnerable flesh.
Run it over the coals,
until it sizzles,
and call that “well done”.
Roasted if you do,
and fried if you don't.
No two ways about it.
There is no sanctuary,
from perpetual upheavals,
turning insides out
to forced extrusions
spewing forth,
that projectile vomit.
No way to safeguard
what you would keep inviolable,
to preserve any taste,
once the jar is open,
revealing its contents
to prying interests.
Vicarious good times
ending cancelled,
by unforeseen circumstances.
Bland rations of total boredom
dished out plentifully,
in place of flavour.
You turn away in disgust
from ongoing flagellation scenes,
and punishing episodes,
that serve to wipe out
any hedonist inclinations,
emergent from what is ice cold.
-----------------------------
140419A
------------
They disappear
by burying their heads
in cellphones.
Digital ostriches,
and some of them still believing
that they will lay golden eggs.
Armies of feather dusters
giving everything a brush off;
clean sweep.
The ball keeps rolling,
and there is no catching it,
gathering momentum.
Sisyphus seen running after,
as he falls further behind,
having fumbled, and lost control.
The rush downhill,
that skittles try to climb
before they are bowled over.
Megaphones bellow out
the usual encouragements,
to packing it in, and giving up.
Various parts form large heaps,
at the ends of assembly lines,
offering translators new opportunities.
They try to rearrange it all,
to uncover hidden meanings
in the margins of production schedules.
-----------------------------------------------
140419B
------------
It all comes down,
the way the rain crashes down
in billions of pieces.
Dry eyes are a luxury
that the past could afford.
Everything melts away given time.
City heaves and sighs,
staring down the future
with a blank, hard, gaze.
A chronic sense of vacancy
infects the mind,
as something more to pull down.
Hide behind the shades,
hopeful as to avoiding recognition
as to whatever you have become.
The scene has changed,
leaving nothing much
to find or gather up.
------------------------
220519A
------------
Not quite dead yet,
but almost got there,
by following directions.
Makes for wanting
to run away
if there was anywhere to run to.
Rotating in the same circles,
and feeling dizzier,
each time around.
Still fighting
all those lies about freedom,
that made a prisoner.
Wishing there was white out
that could remove people
from your own past.
Simply brush them away,
leaving a clean white space,
in place of the experience.
Imagine what could be written in,
into all those spaces,
to make for a better story.
---------------------------------
220519B
------------
Glare of spring,
screams headlights
on high beam
right into the eyes,
for a few blinding days.
Leaves a run over feeling,
of discarded by the roadside
of everyone else in a hurry
to their peculiar ideas
of something special.
It is a lonely time,
of all those flash cards
depicting such intense beauty,
gone almost as quickly
as you try to name anything.
None remains any longer
than that brief length of time,
that that it takes to etch
traces into memory,
teasing a wayward imagination.
---------------------------------------
220519C
------------
Feeling completely run away,
with no where to run to.
The sort of pain that criss-crosses
hither and thither
across a nowhere countryside.
Wanting to go somewhere beautiful
and never come back,
to all the solitude and ugliness
that grimes up the days
and stares out across the emptiness.
The sort of thing that happens
when the clock has been shattered.
Every second another alarm
screaming at the chanced moments
having gone too far wrong.
There isn't a love letter
that does not seem utterly stupid
after it was written.
Merely a clumsier approach
to the same inevitable failure.
You gather up your used up optimism,
realizing that it cannot be redeemed
for anything, anywhere, at all.
Throw in the bits you were saving up
that have expired.
Try to do the paperwork,
finding you can no longer relate
to the blanks in the formalities.
Nothing left to fill in there,
after waking up from that swamp.
You wanted to climb out of it,
but something pulled you down.
Whatever you were reaching for
seems light years away
from immanent systems failure.
Never made orbit,
and then you splashed down
deep into your own eye sockets,
causing a drenching flood,
washing over everything.
You could have spent your time better,
perfecting one or another lie,
realizing you get nothing for the truth.
A failure to conform,
to all the more usual deviations.
Shooting off on a trajectory
that was far too original,
turns into another collision course,
and if you wake up from that
you find you are back in isolation.
Seems that they never give up,
trying to shoot you down,
every time you scramble to defend,
against those hostiles,
that are always dogging your tail.
---------------------------------------------
220519D
------------
I think I have forgotten
what it might be like.
That assuming that I ever knew
beyond other people's stories.
The great diversion
that leads the loneliest
into scattershot lives
of stray and wishful.
I gave up long ago,
but it did not change my mind,
in any way
that a doctor would have ordered,
Maybe this is rebirth:
feeling like a teenager
looking for a first date,
and not knowing anyone.
Vaguely recalling something
about what it was like
to invent pretentious reasons
for what was really trolling.
Merely another proven method
for wearing one's self out,
seeking the impossible
in impossible ways.
Roadside decay
could attract more real attention,
than your own passing ghost
of a chance in hell.
There are too many rules
as to how the pieces go together,
and your pieces
always in the wrong puzzle box.
Nothing seems to have changed
in half a century,
other than lying about trolling
for what you cannot have.
--------------------------------
220519E
-----------
Wanting to get away
from walking the same walk,
and hearing the same talk,
that comes from the contortions
along the boulevard.
A sort of death row reprieve,
hoped might come
before the last minute,
of what seems a forever
of more of the same dread.
Life seems to melt away
the way soft ice cream melts away,
running down the sugar cone,
sticky with suggestions
of something pure and good.
She never called,
and she never would.
Ghost of a chance
anything could ever happen,
is less than a pipe dream.
So much that I wanted to do,
in a make do world
of patching gaping chasms
with inadequate bits and pieces,
of whatever chanced.
Patchwork falls through,
one way or the other,
creating new sorts of damage.
Stops short of total collapse,
leaves hanging from a thread.
Wishful of getaways,
the way outlaws are wishful.
A cultural desperado,
poster child of failure,
kept locked up in ignorance.
Never anything to win,
even if the contest entry is sent in,
as something else to do,
meant to pass time,
chasing the illusions.
It is not really any better,
than where I started from,
and that wasn't anywhere at all,
in terms of getting out,
and starting to live again.
-------------------------------
I guess that near death experiences have a strange effect on the psyche. Pa
rticularly if they hit entirely unexpectedly. If I were a cat with nine liv
es I would be running a bit short of lives by now. Good thing I am not a ca
t and do not share their limitation ?
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