180917A
------------
A saw tooth economy
cuts you,
the way civil war surgeons
amputated limbs.
Something easily considered
as entirely normal.
You cannot be losing
if you already lost,
and it is always the meantime,
somewhere in between,
any sort of hope and anger
incommunicado in a crowd.
Everyone that looked at you,
looking away,
as if they can see the cripple
that you became.
A polite stare
in some other direction.
-----------------------------
180917B
-----------
These times of no time
anytime, for anyone,
but all the time taken up
being occupied at something.
Trying to make time,
but always falling behind,
knowing the bills are due,
and everyone has to be out going,
but nothing comes in,
to the miserable picture,
except that bad odour
of deeply penetrating distrust
that has permeated the street.
Everyone is ass kissing
for nearly anything,
everywhere, everything,
even if they don't admit it.
You watch them getting close
to nothing more
than no one can do it right,
as to saying anything
is actually wrong.
Nothing is ever wrong.
Too busy in these times
of no time for consideration,
as to the strange goings on.
No one looked you up,
from behind closed doors
and what the past became.
If you counted on anything
it was the wrong thing to count on
every time, no matter what.
The exception is no exceptions.
So you know that you never did
get forward enough,
and down the line,
to create any legacy of attraction
to anyone for you,
and choosing to remember.
They will always tell you
that what they have done
is only what you have done
to your self.
A sort of self immolation
on their doorsteps,
and blamed for attention seeking.
never gets past the threshold.
It is all about falling in
to the wrong circles
and forever out of line,
as if someone really gave you
a different chance.
-----------------------
180917C
------------
Sinking ships,
each on our own course,
trying to take
a piece of the night,
before daylight returns
to torture with vision,
and all that ugliness
that comes with the light.
The relentless vigil
from which we imagine
we can conceal ourselves
somewhere in the dark.
Illusions plotting to escape
plotting to escape
common tragedies
of time and place,
but never getting away.
Failing to rescue each other
as we go down.
Down to the bottom
on top or underneath.
The persistence of wreckage,
and consigned to the depths
of dredging for answers
where there are none.
There comes a time
when being wounded
is not enough,
and nothing you can do
except mock the enemy,
the way a missed target
mocks a shooter
teasing for a fatal shot.
That is a type of freedom
few really understand.
The type that shatters
what is being kept constant
and always in the sights,
Hard to say
which is the victim:
as to bullet or target.
--------------------------
180917D
------------
Those ghosts of everything,
anything that I almost believe,
and believed in getting to know,
took the last belief with them
the way priests take bones
away in gilt reliquaries,
as if something precious
was actually saved.
The stage having been set
for another bad act,
where it all comes down,
to a curtain call existence.
Nothing goes on
that could ever silence
any of the critics.
No chance to play out
any of those other parts,
so carefully prepared
in endless rehearsal
of a cancelled show
played to an empty theatre:
Everyone gone to war.
---------------------------
180917E
-----------
Paranoia claims knowledge
as to knowing
who really wants to kill you.
Even if it is always someone else
whom you least suspect
and always assumed innocent.
Leaving nothing other
than some idle speculations
as to who it might be,
when it all goes wrong,
right down to the wire,
and then it explodes.
-------------------------
180917F
-----------
Nothing personal,
and everything for a fee.
There seems nothing really left
that you can really get
without going shopping for it.
That leaves those cravings
that remain unsatisfied,
no matter how you abuse them.
A sort of famine
condition of drought.
The sort of situation report
that blows you away,
every time you rewrite it,
to accommodate existing conditions
the way sand drifts in the wind.
--------------------------------------
180917H
-----------
Chilled to the bone
and coming down fast,
falling mercury.
The only message
you ever knew
past lip service
pronouncements
boosting up
blanked out places
where you had something
that seemed filled in.
They do it to kill you,
with smiles on their faces,
pasted on,
according to prevailing regulations.
Moustaches painted
across billboard images.
You can never run fast enough
to ever catch up,
before they run you down
and run you over and over,
leaving you dead in your tracks.
They tricked you
into believing
it would all come to something.
Left you walking in circles,
as if there is a real future
to be found,
in the going round
and round again.
Spin the way a top spins
when the string is pulled,
trying to stay balanced.
It is when you imagine
that you are up again
safely on your way,
that they hit you again
to crash land hard,
to pull what is left of you
out of another wreck.
A little less being left of you
every time,
hitting harder
on harder ground.
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