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Date: Mon, 2 Jul 2018 15:12:53 -0700 (PDT)
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Subject: Poems: 020718 - July 2nd, 2018
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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020718A
-----------
Living on the brink,
of perpetual broke,
you climb into your hole,
and pull the lid down,
smack,
down on top of it.
Pressed under that shadow
of looming terror
as to ending up nowhere
that you can afford to be,
in some trapped short
cut throat of a rented life.
In that crush of people
whom you cannot desire,
buried in the simple fact
of having nothing left
after rent and taxes:
death throes of Capitalism.
Cannot find the means
to open up competitively,
leaves you closed down hard
into nowhere to go
except further down
your own misery hole.
Endless scraping by,
cancels you, one cell at a time.
No one is really interested
in your impending annihilation,
because all they really want
is someone to escape with.
----------------------------------
020718B
-----------
You were only something else,
that I wanted very much,
and could not have.
Sometimes makes me wonder
what became of you,
but I stopped looking interested,
through that electronic peephole
to glimpse a little something
of that tease of your life.
I Gave up teasing myself
with the absurd possibility
that you might think of me again,
and that it would change everything.
We could have continued that way,
pretending that it means something,
until the end of time,
but that would have meant
I could never really make my point.
--------------------------------------------
020718C
-----------
The scream of all those tomorrows
where we tally up countless losses
as to every chance that we never had,
along with the list of everything
that we never really had the chance to do.
That leaves only the post mortem act
of attaching various reasons
to the immobile limbs of the dead:
the frigid meat locker of dreams,
where the cadavers hang.
A makeshift life is particularly cruel,
in being always temporarily propped up
to stiffly doing something else,
in various make do and uncertain sorts of ways,
while pretending at fulfillment.
Keeping in mind the power of others,
in a world of being held so tightly
to forever playing at the make believe
that claims it all depends on your own self,
but you can never really wriggle free.
The sort of perpetual struggle
carefully designed to wear you down and out,
in its unpredictable outbursts,
stripping you down when least expected,
to leave you clinging to fractured threads.
Create your own stories,
in futile attempts to explain anything,
by rearranging broken pieces.
Something that some others find sufficient
as a way to passing their time.
They seem capable of being interesting,
in some sort of vague statistical manner,
to a statistically wider range of audience.
Some say it is a gift that some are given,
and good as the worm dangled on a hook.
Never get very far that way,
but that does tend to happen,
to anything that chances to be packaged
in the wrong superficial wrapping,
thus lacking sufficient popular appeal.
You know you tried a lot harder,
but they hate that almost as much,
in their intense love of the ordinary.
They cannot seem to ever get enough
of whatever bores you to tears.
--------------------------------------
020718D
-----------
A pointless spurt
of absolute singularity,
in the strange and vain pretense
that argues value.
Continuity is most difficult,
while being reduced to scraps
signifying no more than failed attempts
at making intimate connection.
You only ever know the wrong people,
and there are no introductions
beyond the avoiding of knots
that bring no more than strangulation.
Someone keeps beating on you
until you are gone beyond numb,
concerning all those alien ways,
notwithstanding licit or illicit.
Feeling the relentless push
of any such cruel ministrations:
time seems to have run out,
and similarly any patience.
Sequences of contrived motions,
meant to keep other people happier.
No point in letting on,
how it really goes down.
Disaster becomes a habit,
that you never chose to pursue.
You wonder how you drew that lot
as to that much loneliness.
Seems anything goes,
in the empty shell game
where there is nothing to win,
beyond more of their emptiness.
The conversation dangles
as lame as a partially severed limb.
You feel the need to amputate
before it becomes gangrenous.
Your torturers are laughing,
at your pitiful attempts
at breaking free
of suffering unpleasant insertions.
They keep sticking them in,
while claiming that you are guilty
of always seeking aid and comfort
from an enemy.
-------------------
020718E
-----------
Makes me wonder why
every really romantic moment
that ever dared into my imagination
was turned to being something forbidden.
I was misled by what I had learned
in various novels and films,
concerning how scenes play out
from first sight comments.
That prepared me for being a monster
perverse with horrifying romance,
forever deviating into forbidden zones
beyond the hard lines of urban flesh markets.
A forsaken out of bounds pariah
who could never be content
with nothing more the skin deep,
conspiracies of pocketed money and flesh.
Hopeless at ever comprehending
what today's directions have made
of women and men,
in the revised specifications and manuals.
The warnings as to what happens
when you fail to carefully follow instructions
as to precisely how things must go together,
and using only the proper tools.
--------------------------------------
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