| RE: POEMS 200709 - July 20th, 2009 |
http://groups.google.com |
| Robert Morpheal, Bob Ezergailis, Morphealism (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2009/07/20 23:11 |
200709A
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Counting the attrition,
and never knowing
where it came from
when it hit.
Another mortar round,
exploding in a market,
where the only commodities
are cheap talk and idle rumors.
We are only soldiers,
without real bullets,
sniped at
in the social wars.
They fool you into believing
there is an armistice,
and you know it is only a lull
in the fights that never end.
You chose my flag,
then you changed sides,
watching me hit from behind,
leaving as I am shot down again.
We count our social wounds
the way priests count blessings,
hardly noticing a difference,
until it is all the same curse.
Between cradle and grave,
we only get to trade
in all the species and intensities
of numbness and pain.
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200709B
-----------
Our lives grow
the way deformed trees grow,
constrained in tight confines.
Our lives become costumes
that no longer fit
any of the actual roles.
Our lives are tied
in the manner of starved dogs
tied to lamp posts.
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200709C
-----------
Most of the crowd drifts,
the way discarded things drift,
along the riverbed.
Most of it being unrecognizable,
carried along and concealed
in the sediment mud.
You try to wade across,
but the stream runs too fast and deep,
and you fall in and disappear.
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200709D
-----------
Everything that happens
is similar to reading the first page
of a novel.
You never get to the conclusion,
as the rest of the pages
flutter away.
White butterflies,
whites of eyes disappearing
into the black of night.
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200709E
-----------
Everything that happens
is the same as a fragment
A fragment of motion,
gathered from the cutting room floor,
fading and dissolving away.
We abandon continuity
as being a lost cause,
belonging to dead generations.
Telling stories that we cannot live,
no longer has any real relevance,
in the random scenes of everyday lives.
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200709F
-----------
Real horror
is not about monsters.
Real horror
is the dice roll
of chance events,
where you roll
your snake eyes
with the loaded dice
of a too ordinary life.
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200709G
------------
The dungeon master
contrives scenes,
where you can never win,
place, or score,
and it never really matters
how you play,
to the ever changing rules,
You abandon your character,
the way you abandon worn out clothes,
your persona discarded
as another outmoded style,
until you feel so invisible
you can no longer see yourself,
in the shattered mirrors
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200709H
------------
A perfect record
of zero,
and no matter what you do
you can do nothing
to break that circle,
to get inside
that wall.
You keep falling
into the hole,
until you become it,
becoming its emptiness,
another wind pipe
catacomb sewer
of skulls and bones.
You tried to fill in,
all the depressions,
but when the flood came
you were never up
on high ground
so someone tossed you
a zero to hang onto.
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