| POEMS: 310309 - March 31st, 2009 |
http://groups.google.com |
| Robert Morpheal, Bob Ezergailis, Morphealism (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2009/04/01 23:04 |
290309A
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The liturgies of spring,
are always of the cutting
and the binding up,
the way lambs are shorn.
Talk is of winter spoils,
and the green men
are the war dancers
crowding out any other rhythms.
A renewal of decay,
in everything that softens,
and the streets appear littered
with gestures of decomposition.
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290309B
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These are times of needing
much more than I really want.
Times of counting the bones
of each winter kill.
Times of what is too faded,
becoming excessively irreplaceable.
Times of shattered and broken,
gone too far beyond further repair.
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310309A
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There is the counting of the prizes
that no one ever gets.
There are the variable identities
of now and then strangers.
Something always goes very wrong,
in accordance with the master plan.
We are revised and renumbered,
relegated to various other duties.
Some of us assigned to having sex,
and others sent to more futile tasks.
They get to gather various broken things,
into new and suggestive arrangements.
Sometimes pain is better than pleasure,
because it is so very much more reliable.
The hallucination is much more desirable
than the usual predictable outcome.
We would do nearly anything to escape,
including taking a number and waiting.
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310309B
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The cruelty that persists
when one is being perished slowly,
resembles the numbing effects
of powerful narcotics.
The drug takes over
from where other feelings stopped,
and soon there is nothing you can do
to resuscitate whatever preceded it.
There is only a drift of purpose
away from anything beyond immediate,
Everything else inserted as a nostalgia,
of breaking up and disconnecting.
It is always all about something
that you then have nothing of,
and you realize you have to kill that too,
being unable to live with that much absence.
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310309C
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In this part of the world
spring is always about waiting,
for fast, short lived, bursts
of paraded colors.
We get to watch the colors die
as suddenly as they are born.
That becomes the yearning
for bright silks and naked skin.
The sounds of young women,
mix with the pouring of rice wine.
Pretty faces become reflections
in the melancholic gaze of the cup.
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310309D
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There are times when art also surrenders
to saying nothing,
and there are those who prefer
a beautiful expressionless calm,
culture for the simple minded.
You try to awaken something,
only to find you are kicking at a corpse.
The rotting cabbage head tumbles,
tumbling over and over into the gutter.
Proof that the executions have begun.
A dead bird stripped to skeletal bones,
still attached to feathered angel wings.
Cramped talons reaching for the sky
in recognition of a final denial of Heaven.
The paperwork is sodden and illegible.
Everything is crippled now
as the cripples learn to despise each other,
exorcizing one another with crutches.
Priests lap up droplets of blood from wounds
with their anxious and eager tongues.
Nurses are awaiting the next sudden fatality,
knowing that it promises the possibility of an orgasm.
One of them bears her naked sagging breasts
to the what she hopes are final gasps of breath,
from the twisted body of a fallen saint.
You suddenly realize it was always the same,
and whatever you expected is no longer possible.
You can start to bleed, or you can start to die,
with various, when available, optional choices.
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310309E
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There is something sexually inviting
about the nearly broken shape,
reminiscent of demented contortions of fate,
the deformity of flesh being more arousing.
Perhaps it is the craving for extremes,
as a necessary violation of what is too normal,
the accent displaced on a syllable of form,
creating an instance of anatomical dissonance.
The type of peculiarity that must be examined,
to discover various illicit responses,
in the mapping of entirely unknown territories,
defying the usual expectations.
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410309F
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He has learned to stay away from those
who would urge him to stay away from women.
Staying away is better than killing in cold blood.
There are those who can count themselves lucky
knowing that he does not follow direct orders,
to hunt, to kill and to destroy all his sexual enemies.
The soldier is kept hungry for encounters of the flesh,
the way starved dogs are kept ready to fight battles.
His most trusted friends are his rifle and his cock.
You thought it was all about something else,
but you forgot that we are all victims of sex and death.
The trigger is cocked, and then he discharges his load.
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