| Poems: 190617 - June 19th, 2017 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/06/19 23:21 |
190617A
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The rumour died and was buried.
Time of death remained uncertain,
as to multiple witnesses.
Each had a different story to tell,
perfectly contradicting all the others.
The usual corroborating testimony
that they conspire to present.
The only options appearing as extremes
that prove they can never be realized.
There were no rabbit holes anywhere
that the circumstances could fit through.
Everything proved completely contrived
to keep away any welcome guests.
Any arrangements being false leads.
That kind of thing never sells,
so it gets to remain forever shelved.
The way large files of reports are shelved
where no one is likely to look for them.
No one really ever wanted to play
and that fits the prevalent pattern.
Nothing in between beginnings and ends.
There is something about all of that
that is the same as scrapings from a floor.
The various layers of meaning
that tend to hint at a history of habitation.
The feeling of that is much the same
as various instances of strong emotion.
You never actually meet any of the reasons.
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190617B
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I could write mysteries for you
that no one would ever solve
for thousands of years.
Not that that would make you love me.
The love I sought has become a lost art
that no one remembers how to practice.
Your kisses feel like embalmer's fluid,
turning me cold to the idea.
Increasing I want to create new fictions
to fill in all of those blank pages.
Trying to make a boring story interesting
as if that might attract someone worthwhile.
None of that proving in any way useful,
and we never want for the same things anyway,
which becomes a clear enough sign
as to our fundamental incompatibilities.
That would only leave doing dirty things,
in intermissions between scenes
of deeply and secretly hating each other,
while trying to rationalize terms.
I never wanted to live that way
despite forever being kept under pressure.
Something in my mind keeps popping,
the way bubble wrap behaves when stepped on.
The desire to keep something safe,
as though it might be really wanted someday.
There is an optimism of value
that has its own strange effect.
There is never as much as there was,
and that is never as much as anyone ever wants.
Failing at inspections and assessments
but mostly dispensed with, sight unseen.
There are other sorts of boredom
that we could have afflicted each other with.
The trouble is we are never bored by the same things
in all of the very same ways.
That is not unlike the repetitious countryside,
stretching further than we can endure to travel.
The desire for something we cannot find
making everything else hopelessly restless.
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190617C
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You refused to become my bad habit,
so I should try to find other bad habits
of the sorts that poets tend to find.
It was your duty to avoid saving me,
in accordance with the usual customs
that everyone is forced to practice.
We routinely test those boundaries
as if to prove that we can actually be free.
Not that it would make any difference
in terms of how it all chances to happen.
It is all always contrived to the contrary
of anything we might have settled for.
We played out our parts
the way most everyone always does,
pretending and perhaps believing
that we are in fact exceptions,
even if having no idea as to why,
and failing to look forward to the truth.
I always secretly wanted to sin
against everything that seemed too normal.
So you knew not to trust me,
or someone whispered that into your sleep.
I never really found the right sorts of friends
to lead me astray in any suitable directions.
That is another measure of the loss that is felt,
when I read the obituaries of famous people.
They all had enough of the right friends
to help them escape from the ordinary.
Why some of us are left behind to imagining
eccentric dinner parties in the afterlife.
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190617D
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Drudgery creates a sense of dread
that leads to deep feelings of panic.
The sort of feelings that come to someone
trapped in a room that is filling with water.
There is no way to stay on top of it,
beyond a clearly defined interval.
In that sense the egg timer is running out,
indicating that the egg is hard boiled.
Whatever is fished out from anywhere
is then dropped onto a cold steel surface.
Already having been acclimatized
the absolute chill comes as no big shock.
Everything having been made stiff anyway,
despite the freeze and thaw cycling
that broke it all down little by little
into a condition of decaying spasms.
Everything begins to seem bloated
even before the autopsy is to be performed.
The bruises on the corpse's ankles
cannot ever be adequately explained.
They indicate the tight grip of various hands,
even though only one person was drowned.
The theory that it was the deceased's own
is quickly discarded by the coroner.
Your fingers having left their marks
as symbolic indications of the rising pressure.
Sometimes ideas materialize that way,
in terms of various demands that cannot be met,
leaving a lasting and tangible impression.
Another face staring through a glass wall
at each gasp of clawing desperation:
another laughing witness.
The interrogation follows the post mortem,
and denies the truth of anything
that fails to appear in a mirror.
That used to be the measure of the soul,
but now only a distorted reflection,
the way anything becomes
when it is seen under water.
I confess that I know nothing of you.
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