170307A
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It was half right
and half wrong,
but it remained recognizable
as the beaten up truth.
It was a fat and sloppy night.
The kind of broken down night
when the old timers cannot remember
what it really used to be like.
Everyone is making connections,
but nothing really connects anymore.
It's a day born from a moment of silence,
and the sun is in the coffin again.
There is a room full of faces,
though it feels as if everyone is gone.
Everyone keeps talking
about how the art of conversation died.
It is always about coming looking
for what is never there to find.
You can go somewhere else
but that is another waste of time.
You never really had whatever it was
that you thought that you had got.
Then you find something else
is something you have already lost.
They are all looking, so look around,
to find that no one is looking at you.
it all unravels with no beginning
never really coming to an end.
Seems everyone is answering
to everyone else.
You drift through the crowd,
feeling like you are a ghost in a machine.
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170307B
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All the beauty
appears to have left,
leaving only empty scenes
stained with anticipations.
More lost time
is wiped away,
as persistent smudges
from broken mirrors.
Another weekend
of always moving on
with nowhere to go,
that isn't ending up on ice.
The losing propositions
stare like crucifixes,
circling the way satellite birds
hurry past in empty space.
I see the billboards offering
new mortifications
of the flesh.
I hug the window displays.
I would have called
to tell you,
no one loves you
as much as I do.
You would have failed
to answer that line,
leaving me,
with the way it always is.
I live in never never land
and you are another never,
added to my list,
of whatever washed away.
I don't really know
what went wrong,
and I can't find
what ever really went right.
Everything is childish,
so I end up learning too slowly
that only children can have any fun.
That earns me a dunce cap.
I feel as if I am stealing glances
the way the starving steal bread.
Trying not to be seen or heard
becoming afraid that that might offend.
You left me to pretty poison,
as something to swallow,
while sifting through artifacts
of various forms of almost pride.
Something within me
is another martyr put to the stake.
You are treating me like ashes,
while becoming the wind.
I don't know the meaning anymore,
impaled on turns of phrase,
wondering which word was so wrong
that you tell me I must love alone.
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