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Subject: Poems: 010817 - August 1st, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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010817A
-----------
If you believe it is over,
or soon to be over,
you will not want that much,
if you want for anything
in light of its loss.
Eternity could be entirely spent,
exactly in that same way,
and constructing new dreams
from broken pieces of old ideas
constantly rearranged.
Your twig of a life,
whittled persistently down,
under those hungry knives
of a multitude of reasonings
playing their edges.
A bird dog
flushing the thicket,
into flurries of wings
that dodge anything
comes straight as an arrow.
Touched by the wrong hands
is always worse,
than becoming a leper
that nothing ever touches,
and where touch falls away.
A persistent superimposition
as to various superficial lies,
meant to conceal all expression
so that almost no one knows,
and everyone else turns away.
Loneliness made into a sin,
which is never to be forgiven,
once it has been committed,
as if that too might force you
to reach for the sky to surrender.
---------------------------------------
010817B
------------
They have raised the price tag
on everything,
including recognition.
Forgetting that it was hard to afford
all that anonymity
that marked out the boundaries
of small parcels of territory.
They always want something more
than you can ever afford to give,
and even then it is never enough
even if it is everything,
and the cost of knowing
that they will always want more,
than you could ever pay.
The fear of being broken free
quarrels with that other fear
as to never knowing any freedom.
The two take up arms
in mortal struggle,
catching you in the crossfire,
where you get it from both sides.
Getting it is always important,
with its nuances of fatality.
You have to always be careful,
who you chance to get it from,
as there might be no known cure,
but you have to get it,
to amount to understanding that.
Ideas of love proved too complicated,
and then lust joined in
to that tangled and sorry heap,
staining various things with regrets.
Breaking away feels like a crown
that some people tend to get
for wrestling someone else down.
Take that any way that you will,
because it always means the same,
no matter how many times it happens
that you use it as a handkerchief,
to wipe your eyes away,
into becoming gaping caverns
that spill out your imagination.
Worse yet if you are found guilty
of wanting something different
than crowded room of others want.
You thought the competition fierce
before you separated yourself
from the average of the herd,
but it only really began then.
There are no amends to be had
beyond any point of no return,
and you always end up realizing
it is always gone too far,
with no chance of looking back,
to anything worth seeing
once you figure out where you are.
-------------------------------------------
010817C
------------
It is nothing much more,
than tolerating each other's boredom
while avoiding the obvious.
A type of common skill
more easily practised by many
in a condition of inebriation
where everything feels vague.
It is all much more mature that way,
as long as the beasts remain caged.
Assuming there is anything left
that anyone could actually let loose,
beyond ghosts of a chance,
and the habits of polite conversations
avoiding any such subjects.
Some do prefer obsessions
as to various mounds of flesh,
opened to tactile exploration.
As if that adds punctuation
to otherwise run on sentences,
collapsed into disorderly paragraphs,
that are then strewn across the floor.
Real intimacy has become a myth,
and no one knows anyone anymore.
That makes it much easier
to kill something if you feel you have to,
even after you have learned
through persistent practice,
until it all becomes second nature.
After all it is only really you
when you no longer have to think about it.
Everything else is some sort of invention,
Rube Goldberged into active service,
in the various trench wars that surface
as to any of our human differences
in terms of whatever we chance to prefer.
Dangerous people are less attractive,
where everyone is dangerous.
The team huddle has changed
into varied probabilities as to betrayals.
It could come from any direction,
and you always have to be ready for it.
You hope for a choice of bad crowds.
Somewhere it is probably different,
and maybe on the other side of town.
Rumour has it and you do not know
because you have never been there.
You saw it somewhere on television
and you half believed in it being as real,
as the commercial messages.
You learned to try to always settle
for whatever the consolation prize was,
that was there to make you feel lucky.
That always being your big mistake,
and finding you should have held out
for something real instead,
of knocking yourself out for nothing.
Television the mirror of everyone's souls,
until they lost their virginity
in between early warning signals.
The reassurance of a local station
that anyone could always tune in to,
in the case that that their cliff hangers
came to an apocalyptic conclusion.
It all depends on something
such as who you went to school with.
Difficult to remember who that was,
and where the time went in between,
having missed all of those reunions,
to back then it felt intensely existential
to simply drift across a field.
Nothing much ever really changes,
when you distill it down that far
into those types of essences.
The sort that all have the same effect,
even if catering to different tastes.
Always assured you can pick something
that makes you feel lonelier than before.
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