| Poems: 011117 - November 1st, 2017 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2017/11/03 20:16 |
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Subject: Poems: 011117 - November 1st, 2017
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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011117A
-----------
Dry as a dog's discard
used up bone,
feeling scattered
to the four winds.
Chewed on
and utterly wasted.
All those other plans,
of all those other times,
that were never possible.
Still in the bag,
not knowing where
the bag has gone.
Numb inside
from kicked about
to never an answer.
Best foot forward,
steps into the same shit,
sliding into trouble.
Classic tragedies
ancients refused to write
scrawled on eyeballs.
Those gods always afraid
of relevant questions,
and decided for censorship.
Every direction
becomes suspect,
of something gone rotten.
You get crushed
trying to squeeze through
the apparent openings.
Mapping a route,
to wrong way
and always go back.
The toll
of lost in the maze
of too forward.
Start over,
at cannot start.
And take liberal doses
of nothing
knowing everyone
will expect too much.
---------------------------
011117B
-----------
Loneliness churned
into being an unspeakable sin
that no one can talk about.
Heavy penance
for the intense guilt
of an unspeakable affliction.
It was never tomorrow
beyond the irritant.
Rub that in some more.
Let that teach you,
more empty lessons,
of stricken off the list.
Flat out
to being and becoming
run over again.
Welcome to thrown
beneath any steamroller
movement of heavies
Getting it rubbed in,
as hard as possible,
until stains form
that never come off.
It does not mix well,
and best to avoid.
Easily oversold
to stumble in,
finding no way around,
and no getting over.
Fallen for imagining
more than decay.
Ruin of anything
is the thought of it.
Word is already out,
infecting with trouble,
that you cannot shake loose
before it brings you down.
--------------------------------
011117C
-----------
All that you could have been,
in that gone world,
before mandatory obsolescence.
turned over and over
into close kept secrets
that some smile about
while turning others down.
There are old rebels
congregating at the way out,
indulging in purest habit.
The young
tuned to radio control
guiding them away
from antiquity and innovation.
The failed operation,
with its cut away views,
that never explain anything.
Exploratory cross sections,
hinting at might have been,
any wishful thinking,
deviated in some other way.
There is a vague indication
in notes at the bottom of a page
as to what it meant to be free
and what it used to feel like.
You have to be older
than you will ever be
to know what those notes say.
Wondering if anyone really did
what actors do in old movies.
It seems absurd
as to vintage fiction.
Almost no one visits
the discards and remainders store
unless they live in the past.
-------------------------------
011117D
-----------------
Isn't it strange
as to never found,
and never finding
the not taken.
Nothing seems left
that one could really take
that much of.
Always ending up searching
for an impossible exception.
Whatever it comes to
is always taken.
That peculiar give
and take of it all
that others tell you
they have found
so much of.
Not knowing any of that,
and no matter the claims
they never really settle.
Beyond the struggle
of the have
and the have not
defacing
so much else.
Nothing much
left over
of anything much
as to any.
Always something else
gets in the way,
defeating any courage.
Seems whatever
and could not take much,
never really wanted
anything much,
of what there really was
any of to offer.
Score no points.
The match always taken
by something other
and no one really cares
what any of it really means.
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