| Poems: 020817 - August 2nd, 2017 |
|
| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/08/02 08:30 |
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Subject: Poems: 020817 - August 2nd, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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020817A
-----------
Keep turning the pages,
to too many chapters closed,
and no no new ones opened.
What seemed so promising
proves postscript to failure
in any possible arrangement.
Instances of written in,
somewhere between the lines,
as an aside of misspent romance
with one or another
sort of impossibility
guiding predestined outcomes.
A false sense of warmth,
as something to feel guilty about,
and never go there again
if you know what is good for you,
though you really don't know,
what that really is.
Delusions of grandeur
are easier than any gritty realities.
Easier to comply with,
and easier to follow along on.
The same as any bouncing ball
following simple minded lyrics.
Nothing truly useful
to be in any way genuinely gained,
but you keep on going
much the same,
as any other creature of habit goes,
not really knowing anything else.
Feeling far too poisoned
with that foul taste of normal,
the mind is driven
to seeking futile ways to escape
from all that mortification
as anything resembling love.
-----------------------------------
020817B
-----------
If you had more money,
you could go out
to sit in a corner somewhere,
and watch the people go by
from that rented space.
That persistent desire to get out,
that never really relents,
at making endless demands,
the way loan sharks do it
when they demand the vigorish.
It always costs something
to experience that type of alone
that requires others
as part of what demonstrates
the nature of the affliction.
A paltry and trivial exchange,
as to the most common banalities,
served up convincingly
by the mind always held in denial
of the truly constituent realities.
It does not matter one little bit
if it is all made up,
as long as it seems normal.
The role of any fiction
that serves the real purpose.
People reinvent themselves daily,
smearing out any evident differences,
until no longer recognizable
as anyone that you used to know
on the typical roundabout.
It is only about the horses,
because the riders constantly change,
and the song remains the same,
no matter who sings it,
as another reminder of perpetual loss.
----------------------------------------------
020817C
------------
You failed to understand
that you could never begin to replace
what I really always wanted.
A formula that always assures the same
hating you for the attempt.
The threats that time always makes,
as to always immanently running out,
make all of that much worse.
Your coloured balloons being false signals
on my broken horizon.
Most enemies can prove kinder
than well intentioned friends prove to be.
Sometimes it is very hard to prove
any sort of real difference
when down to the nuts and bolts of it.
It only takes a little bit of adjustment
to lock you out forever,
while being made to feel entirely at home,
as if you ever really belonged
anywhere that they wanted to put you.
Things get rearranged that way,
on window ledges and on shelves,
to await some special moment
when everything seems in its right place
and all feels right with the world.
What does not belong together
only comes together to come to know
how to break anything up and apart.
One lesson I am perfectly able to teach
to anyone who insists on learning it.
The other side remaining hidden,
from my peculiar type of desperation
in a world where everyone is desperate,
in one way or some other,
and terrified as to who else might know.
---------------------------------------------------
020817D
------------
Chancing stopped at a different junction
as sometimes happens in a wayward life.
Perhaps it was all by design
and nothing left to pure chance.
I have no way to prove or disprove
any such facts.
The fossil record speaks for itself,
and people flesh in the details
in various imaginative ways.
I am right off of anyone's map,
and made to learn to like it that way.
As soon as you are a destination,
the wrong people always arrive,
causing the same old regrets
to come up all over again,
the way food poisoning comes up
distastefully all over again
as it spoils the taste.
Feeling no desire to know
anyone whom I know anything of,
and having no desire to suffer
anyone whom I do not know at all,
I can put up with a few people,
as long as they go home,
at what seems an appropriate time,
without lingering too much
on my threshold of thin patience.
The persistent fact of other plans
that I would have chosen to make
if I had found a way to invent freedom
by whispering its name,
repeatedly over and over again,
until it materialized into alluring choices
that one can in fact actually make
without everything being spirited away
at any instance of actual discovery.
Maybe that is what it means
as to becoming chronologically older
and only feeling 18 again,
but without equivalent recourse.
There is too much that seems too serious
to allow for any definite decisions,
as it all tends to excessively irrevocable.
All the roads already proved closed,
and the detours only circled back again.
We gauge what life is about in that way,
as to what is gone and what remains.
Another sort of monumental task
that one never quite has the strength for,
but always feels a pressing need to do.
Avoiding imagining anyone
that I could actually live with,
and assuming no one really exists
matching any such description.
-------------------------------------
020817E
-----------
Hard to know what to say anymore,
as to any sort of tea and crumpet.
The fact of not being in one's element,
and all of that extreme displacement,
no matter whether threatened or real.
Something distasteful
about the nature of the conversation,
as to where everything seems to lead
no matter what else it pretends.
There seems to be no real solution,
to any of the problems that come up,
but always forced to pretend,
and assure everyone it has been found.
Living our lives one lie at a time,
after giving up walking in circles
pointlessly around the larger truth.
That becomes a duty to be performed
without questioning command.
Every algebra of need
undergoes a multitude of transformations,
as to its perpetually infectious patterns.
It makes sure you never get away
from becoming nothing much more
than just another user.
If anything turns around
it is only one type of junk for another
and nothing really moves forward.
If there is anything truly human about it,
as to what might prove desirable,
you can feel certain they will not let you
near to anything of that kind.
Much less if it is potentially more satisfying.
Creating urges to try to fill that abyss in mind
with something more readily attainable,
and far more easily immediate
to a poverty of common consideration.
It is always hate to go and hate to stay,
harbouring that restlessness inside
the way waves slap boats
and boats then nudge against the docks,
in their all whispering relentlessly
as to unspeakable matters
that no one ever wants to talk about.
The smell of dead and decaying fish
penetrating the broken air.
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