| Poems: 040317 - March 4th, 2017 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/03/04 15:18 |
270217A
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Another savage without a tribe,
in persistent denial of prevailing conditions
as to what is common and what is not,
once it is corked or capped
in the fullness of meaning,
waiting to be opened up
to knowing there is some consumption
bottled up in every instance.
Some still spill their desperate prayers
as if someone might actually hear them.
You are your wants and I am mine,
each making our various claims
about anything marketed to offer,
and as to who is out of danger,
though never fully recovered,
still wanting to slip away from the crowd
into hallucinations and delirium
that make up all the illusions of peace
succoring all of the wishfulness
that lullaby into a sense of sanctuary.
Nobody really cares
but there are many who lick at the treacle
of the many sorts of happy talk
while only the worst of fools would choose
to deny that such choices really matter
even when whatever is dished out
is never really what they choose.
We come from alone
and in the end we return to alone
filling in various spaces in between.
All hope fades away when you realize
that it does not matter who the one is,
because there really is no one,
and if the eyes are the windows of the soul
it is only your own that you ever see
in any of those entrancing reflections.
Everything else being walls of deceptions
contrived to keep the prying out,
as if they are intent on taking something away
where there is nothing to actually take.
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040317A
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The struggles of living things
are more apparent in dead of winter,
when the old year clings
as thinning whitened trim
to what was stripped naked again.
I feel as if having died several times
in the course of a northwest passage
where everything is frozen out,
locked into paralyzing ice flows
that ensnare and crush the beaten hull.
Never having chanced to break free
from being pinned by cold stares
plunged into ever colder depths
the way a knife is driven down and in
to where it carves away the soul.
Whatever fell from above
is already bruised up and gone,
gathered layers of parchment
veined with thin lines of history
marking the passing of time.
Everything goes soft
as it decays and evaporates,
becoming prurient traces,
frozen in the hard cold ground,
having followed the worm down under.
For man it is all about the worm
dragged along beneath
soft underbelly potato sack of skin.
The consuming maggots
become the excrement of birds.
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040317B
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What never came to me,
was too much to lose,
causing that trick of time
that makes distant yesterdays
seem far too recent,
as if nothing stood in between
all the then and now divisions,
and yet it is too far to see
from one side to the other,
being so slipped away
from any remaining belief.
The late 20th century
lived on 11 trillion in damages
and whatever more it cost
to rebuild a semblance of reality,
then slowly run out of money again
50 years later,
meaning I was born into rationing
only to arrive at stretched out thin
and not really any further ahead
to finding my longed for place,
instead of being a displaced person.
It was always one of those games,
that everyone was accustomed to playing,
where you try to throw those dice
to land your unique playing piece
somewhere more comfortable
than being bumped off and out,
which was always the danger
in playing against everyone
always having to go it all alone
according to the rules
as to how games were always played.
Knowing it is never your own,
only someone else’s time of the world
their one big chance and anything else
that can make you more jealous
as to how easy it seems for them,
but never really is for you,
making you wonder
how you could have been born
on what seems always the wrong side
of whatever you chanced to happen
to be on the wrong side of.
I used to live inside my shell,
and never really wanted to come out
for fear of being crushed underfoot,
trying to avoid the incessant destruction
that was relentlessly being practiced
along culverts and in meander ditches
where I learned what it was like
to always end up being odd
among everyone else getting even
and what it feels like to want to escape
from all my varied captors.
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040317C
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It comes from trying too hard
with the wrong people,
because they simply happened to be
what chanced to happen
when they happened.
That is how it tends to happen,
when it is contrived to happen,
given any facts
far too late to consider.
Nothing more and nothing less
than moments of weakness
causing cave ins.
Life is too often about various needs,
not really being met,
but falsely believing that they might be.
That is what people play upon,
as they search for the weak points
in any of your arguments.
Among the usual reasons for failure
the simple fact
that they were the wrong people
to get tangled up with.
Their laughter betrays them
as to its specific tone
that tells you what they really were
even if it comes too late.
It reveals how much you mattered
in the totality of their equations
when it was split up
and you were factored out
So life becomes the endless process
of having to cut loose,
subjected to make believe
that it was some sort of free choice,
when it was nothing of the sort,
and your lifeline shows the scars
where it was repeatedly severed
in various brutal ways.
They simply keep cutting
and you keep bleeding out,
where you are held down
and cannot get up.
At least you cannot get up
enough to matter
to anyone of significance.
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040317D
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Some people look for everything
on the outside.
Some people look for everything
on the inside.
Others cannot find it outside
or inside,
no matter how or where
they look for it.
Some people have no idea
what it is that they are looking for
but they keep looking for it.
Some people have given up looking,
in despair at not having found
whatever they were looking for.
Others seem to have everything
all of the time,
and never need to look for anything
anywhere at all.
Some people are allowed to look
whenever they feel like looking
at whatever they want to look at.
Some people are not allowed to look,
no matter when they feel like looking
or at what they feel like looking at.
Others never bother to look,
as if there is nothing to look at
that they find worth looking at.
It makes you wonder
who really decides who can look,
and who cannot look,
when they can look and when not,
as to what they can look at,
and how they can look
at what they look at,
when they look
for whatever they look for
in all that looking that goes on.
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