| Poems: 020517 - May 2nd, 2017 |
|
| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/05/02 10:38 |
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Subject: Poems: 020517 - May 2nd, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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020517A
-----------
You and I fell
into what resembles a world
where the spark gap becomes
something smaller and smaller
between what passes as love
and all the various allegations
as to codependencies,
and other accumulated failings.
In that there are endless variants
of infinite calculations
as to ever widening separation
in an endlessly expanding universe
filled with shock troops
marching endlessly through the space
and all the time in between
moments of destruction.
A solid backdrop of systemic abuse
added into any accounting of scene
blurs everything together
into increasingly isolated fantasies
of one sort or another
as to future past, points of desperation,
only about the labeling
even if there is nothing inside.
It is largely a given
as to never really doing anything
that one ever really wanted to do
as if anything of that sort
would always hurt someone
who always has more needs
to be more completely protected
from any such shock therapies.
A lot more time being spent
in various attempts at mitigation
that seem to keep something alive
that has no life left in it
and thus ever more mitigation
than would have seemed possible
as a sort of failed resuscitation
that never stops trying to resuscitate.
---------------------------------------------
020517B
-----------
Spilling out your feelings,
is only a leaking of water
from your water bag existence
changing nothing much
as the water bag goes soft
until everyone discards
your being suddenly perceived
as running on empty
to going dry as bone
after found out being all wet
instead of holding it all in
and better yet frozen
because frozen is solid
in knowing that it hurts them
when they hit on that
iceberg in their ocean
of Titanic fears
as to going down
to any sort of bottom
in what no one fathoms
because no one goes deep
if they can avoid depth
in fear of the pressure
and no coming up for air
from way down there
where there is watching
everything seem high above
where the girls are melting
into rivulets of water
that run away into the sea
making feel sick inside
from watching
and being sent away
to so far away
while the bloody sea
seems stretched forever
so always deep
and down inside
the birds circling
on high above
endlessly spying for signs
of bread and flesh.
----------------------
020517C
------------
Sometimes it is something better
to have known and parted
quickly thereafter, to hereafter,
and anywhere else
that seems immediately convenient,
so as to avoid the various forms
of more intimate contempt
that grow and develop
from anything that comes too close
for there to be any comfort,
but that seems a luxury
constrained to only special cases
and far from commonly available
in this classification of structure
without any real settlement,
as to who is always at the head
who is made to fall behind
and who sits with the dunce cap
always in the corner,
knowing it is sometimes better
never to have really known
those deeper levels of disillusion
that are more commonly preferred
as all that is readily available
for being served up
as one or another typology
of the most common fare
and all that is available
on the perennial tasting menu,
where one can ill afford
to be sampling anything at all,
and where what one gets
always proves tasteless
and invariably too toxic
a ruin of any appetites.
---------------------------
020517D
------------
Always too late for yesterday
and too early for tomorrow.
That leaves only waiting somewhere
trapped in between any instances
of past and future fictions.
The illusion that we actually can
write ourselves in and out again
of anywhere we might want to,
is another form of consumption.
The condition is always fatal,
as the victim succumbs slowly
into various types of wasting away
toward becoming sacked bones.
Tomorrow never comes
and yesterday is always gone away,
never really coming back,
despite endless rumored lies.
That serves as sufficient hearing,
and a cause of popular judgement,
rendering victims condemned
for anything trusted or believed.
Coffins the only witnesses
to what might have been significant
in terms of proving any real points
about the endless questioning
that a relentless Inquisition conducts.
I’ve known of some tomorrow types
and of all those yesterday people,
but being in the middle of it all
it feels as if I do not know anyone
between arrivals and departures.
The end of the line,
and left to sitting there
the way a crash test dummy sits
after the collision has happened.
Everything was derailed
no matter which line it was on,
or at what moment in the action
as something inappropriate.
----------------------------------
020517E
------------
Fear is about splintered realities
broken down as to the many
who are always willing to turn
sharply and tightly
to nailing you
to a martyr’s cross
of suffering for something,
for anything that might be convenient,
nailed to the sudden impulse
and no matter what
as to where or whether
it is branded as true Capitalism
or any sort of false opposition
movement or occupancy,
as to all the unnecessary
pulled and pushed along with
the endlessly made difficult,
then created and recreated
scourges readily applied to
made ever more desirous,
so typically eager flesh
to become scarred up
by the perpetual motion
machine actions
of ever more losses,
compounded and complicated,
having failed to hide away
from their imaginations
applied to any instance
as to what a mock savior
might try to conceal away
from them always same
as to their compulsion to Judas
something or someone
to yet another nailing
to anything at all
as thoughtlessly as possible,
that would afflict
with any similar
or greater damage.
----------------------
020517F
-----------
As if they do not know me
they do not say a word.
I am not in that picture
and no reward being offered.
The fact of no recognition
without judgements of worth
but you hardly care then
as to dead or alive.
I was never the one you wanted,
and what you did was an act,
as to the only character
that you knew how to play.
Too bad I did not match up
to any description
as to what you thought of me
while you played out your obsession.
The deprecation of ideas
is always about gunfire and blood
smeared across anyone’s thoughts
as ultimate erasures.
Erasures of anything
that might have been
and actually meant
to resonate differently.
Differently to primitive impulses
translated into something
technically correct as extensions
of a fist’s reach.
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