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Subject: Poems: 281017 - October 28th, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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281017A
-----------
The clock seems broken again,
crawling on fractured hands,
dragging its belly
across no man's land.
Time is on vacation,
after rushing blindly in,
gone down a blues man's river,
where only tears prove right.
Rumours of a new law,
banning wet behaviour,
moisture declared insignificant,
beyond its environmental issues.
References to accumulated salts,
polluting red eye landscapes,
in fear that it depresses the prices
of various commodity markets.
-------------------------------------
281017B
-----------
So it is not what you want,
and it is not what I want,
so you only want what they want.
I can never want what they want,
despite the torment of needs.
So it can never really go well.
I am the official creep, the weirdo,
that you placed on the wanted posters
as the latest public enemy number one.
No one will break with secrecy,
fearing similar expulsion from the tribe.
It has all happened before.
Easy for most to feel rewarded
for conducting monkey trials.
I sit alone as condemned.
Sentenced in absentia, having no defence,
for failing to commit popular crimes.
Perpetual loser in the public ratings wars.
I never did any of the right things,
to venerate popular landmarks
along the guilt trip route.
I cannot tell your love from hate.
It always leads to lost time.
As if any of it is real opportunity.
You noticed that I was different,
so you believed I was a beast.
It made you sharpen your knives.
Ruined everything from behind.
Made me victim of a sneak attack.
Left me whisperers of nothing.
All I ever got was bad advice.
I can listen to myself asking again,
as the echo of no answers.
-------------------------------
281017C
------------
A writer cannot survive
the blunt trauma of an empty page.
So you keep hitting hard
with endless new revisions
of empty pages.
It happens when one dares
to think of something new,
seeming a little bit special.
That it could fill some hollow spaces,
that blunt trauma creates.
The concussive impacts,
causing more forgetting
in the struggle to sponge up
a constant bleeding out
of tedious subject matter.
Boredom is absolutely forbidden,
but it tends to work that way,
despite never appearing
on any official certificates
as to cause of emotional death.
Wanted so much more
than showing embarrassing wounds,
but it is never an art school crowd,
for the sake of understanding or explaining.
Besides, it is far too late in the day.
Halloween bones,
spending a graveyard night,
having failed to dig anything up.
Tombstone graffiti is becoming
as romantic as it ever gets.
She does not dance with this skeleton,
and it feels no different
than alphabet insects crawling on skin,
stripping the displayed specimen
down to a museum bone display.
----------------------------------------
251017D
------------
Memory has crashed,
being erased by another shock.
Forgotten the steps
that enable a futile task.
That broken legged feeling,
and no way to make it go.
That feeling of falling
that never quite hits the ground.
The sickest feeling
of losing what you never had.
That big chance
that never really becomes.
Rush right into it,
believing the wall is a door.
Finding it all goes down again,
in the midst of a killing.
Cold and damp
adds to the depths of the cut.
Cuts right through
and never seems to stop.
------------------------------
281017E
-----------
Everything gets closed down,
no matter how you try to open up.
It never felt that cold,
on the verge of winter threats
seeming certain to be realized.
Could not fight a way out,
to something better.
Near death experiences
being how the isolation becomes
when held as far away as stars.
The reset of the counter
wipes everything out,
with a button push.
It all fails to tally up,
to learning you cannot start again.
What really counts
when nothing counts anymore,
beyond the wipe out conditions
threatening to leave no trace
even if the snow melts.
----------------------------
281017F
-----------
Shock troops
marching through your nightmare.
All requests denied,
expectations impossible,
telling you that you can self destruct
in fifteen seconds or less,
if you choose or want to.
Where have good times gone,
as it all goes down,
the way a criminal caper goes down,
leaving a mess of confusion
that you can never resolve.
The damage always happens
where you were left out.
Whatever you built
is turned into tearing apart,
emptied of life.
Under attack,
never knowing
where it came from
or where it goes.
The tools were acquired,
but that job is cancelled.
It always depends on someone
whom you do not have,
even if you do not know
who that might be,
as everyone dissolves away.
----------------------------------
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