| Poems: 290517 - May 29th, 2017 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/05/29 22:36 |
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Date: Mon, 29 May 2017 21:36:31 -0700 (PDT)
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Subject: Poems: 290517 - May 29th, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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290517A
------------
It almost never happens
but then it happens to you.
How could you be so unlucky,
and what is it that you said ?
It is always a problem of words
even if they are only inside your head.
Could cut the silence with a knife
and you know it would still bleed.
No one left alive on this side
who wanted to know any of that.
Feeling as if you are the last one
left on the barricades of your love.
Another indefensible position,
as the bullets aim at your heart.
You make out as an exceptional target,
in the usual routine of their practice.
No permission slips to pin up
on the bulletin board of your life.
There is no one left worth a call
that really wants you to go that far.
If there ever was a real conversation
it was definitely cut short.
You lacked all the right subjects
for that particular crowd.
You always wanted more
than what seemed to make them happy.
Always too much left undone
that would have made for a good story.
Strange being only a savage
that has lost the whole tribe.
No more use for monkey glands,
when forced to the end of that line.
They declined to offer an invitation,
as to private rumours and arrangements.
They cancelled all the celebrations,
and they wouldn't say good night.
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290517B
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You were similar
in a few peculiar expressions,
so I started to make believe
that you might like me.
Since then I have given up
on thinking that way.
That precludes any urgency
to actually fantasize.
Best to avoid any sort of illusion
that you might return.
My tumbleweed life
never works that way.
--------------------------
290517C
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We were only pieces of paper
scattered in the wind.
Somewhere your name was on one
but it got lost among the others.
Love affairs begin and end that way,
producing a few marginal notes.
Everything that seems that appealing
always ends up getting lost.
It starts to seem as if a force of habit
even if entirely unintentional.
Most of life is the same as dialing
and always getting a wrong number.
Eventually marginal notes are scrutinized
and it is all made to look totally foolish.
The sort of thing that requires a few drinks
before carelessly divulging any secrets.
All to be disregarded and forgotten
by the time the sun rises in the morning.
All the intimate portions of the narrative
had to be carefully blacked out
leaving a skeleton of text.
We were merely bones when we began
and only bones after that,
having rattled around in a near empty glass.
I always craved a kind of intimacy
that I was never allowed to have.
I wanted to become a traitor
who could cross over to the other side.
I hoped for a softer and gentler fate;
putting an end to being one of the torturers.
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290517D
------------
Sometimes what you could never have
you chance to end up becoming,
in one strange way or another.
I see it happening all of the time,
but it is often a weak sort of metaphor.
The need to rewrite and edit one's self
until ending up with something
that one could actually choose to live with
even if there was never anyone else,
and tired of searching for what is missing.
There never really was an other,
who even bothered to read the instructions
that came with the package.
They never wanted to get that close
to understanding how the pieces go together
or what comes after that.
We live in that type of world now,
where there is no point as to any expectations.
Too often you only get what is in the mirror
and if you do not like the look of that
then you can forget it altogether,
except for final arrangements.
I knew of some who took the fastest train out,
believing their journey was a dead end line.
They simply did not want themselves anymore
and nothing could convince them
not to discard and recycle,
what they felt had become too emptied out.
That type of deprivation is a strange partner
which never provides any type of comfort.
It makes a lifetime seem all the same
endlessly a cat and mouse on a hot tin roof,
with everything always a ghost of a chance
even after far too much compromise.
The worst losses are always imaginary,
as to what you imagined you might know
in some forbidden personalized conjunction
of your planet with the alien world,
that writers sometimes write so much about,
that no one you get to know ever lives in.
You might have heard various rumours
but in the end it was all only in your own mind,
that every new tease brought you nearer.
Too difficult to really know anything else,
no matter how hard you try to learn and study,
it all comes back to only yourself in the end.
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