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Subject: Poems: 190818 - August 19th, 2018
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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190818A
------------
That crazed state of mind
that chooses to play hero,
in mid day dreams;
realizing it means nothing
except make believe escapes
from weekend loneliness.
The fear you overcame
is that you might get killed
while your eyes were closed.
Some people never wake up,
and no one knows
if that saved the world.
Comic book heroes
are made up that way,
from late summer blues,
that found no one
for any sort of getaway
from urban sprawl.
Another mass exodus
of going nowhere,
and hoping to get there fast.
Gives some a false sense
of turning it all around,
despite nothing changed.
The reality of comic book episodes
ends when you close the cover,
returning to other illusions
that make up your viewpoint
about what is real
and what is not.
Sequestered in those private cells
of a decaying, shared, body.
Consuming the same rot,
as to mass deployment
of decomposing waste,
secretly cherishing emptiness.
The long list of pretend duties
that did not get done.
Perpetuation of disorders
that know no real cures.
The evasions of perfection
as rebellions against threats.
A blank calling card,
so you can write on both sides,
whatever you want.
The long list of sins
printed in invisible fine print,
forming secret credentials.
You want to wriggle out
of the bind that you are in;
untangling the endlessly same
that takes up most of the time,
the way worms eat flesh
as they liberate bones.
---------------------------
190818B
-----------
Knowing how we care so much
about the things that seem to matter
in the formation of attachments,
only because we are held prisoner
to circumstances.
A conspiracy of need,
that borders on pure violation.
It is what you cannot get
that makes the mark,
as to shooting worthless targets.
Call it an aim,
when it makes no real difference.
Something safe to shoot at,
even when it shatters.
Armies of clay pigeons.
Anguished for reorganization
into more viable configurations.
The sorts of expense
that one can ill afford to endure,
as to elusive improvements.
It is not about the advertisements
that slip through every crack,
littering the mental landscape
with their perpetual demands
for more detailed compliance.
Pocket change to some,
perpetuating envy of opportunity.
The languishing in dread
that fills the ominous silence
along endless dividing lines.
Realizing it is all too hollow,
but there is money in it.
There are people who can win
by pulling a rake
across an empty field.
Others die in the same holes
they spend their lives digging,
simply to hole up inside.
Fiercely manning credit lines
to hold ground.
The missing of important points
by concentrating on details.
Arranging and rearranging
the same old habits;
while not admitting to being bored.
Plotting getaways,
the way outlaws plot their heists.
Something to boast about,
to make others give notice.
An illusion of being someone.
Wisdom has been redefined
as reaching for the illusions
that more commonly matter,
while letting go
of those that few care about.
Every petty bureaucrat knows
the value of accurate lists,
and remaining organized.
Everything in order,
without questioning meanings.
-------------------------------------
190818C
-----------
I knew she would not like to,
go beneath the surface,
whether in the flesh or in words.
It is only about a bag of skin,
what shape it is in,
and about who now gets
caught up in strangle holds.
Yesterday's popular trends
become tomorrow's social crimes.
The lifelong learning of many
as to what and how to follow,
for the sake of following
in dread of being found out
of tune with the times.
No one takes my breath away
without a fight.
I could never surrender
to anything so ordinary,
as all those common demands,
leading to day to day wars,
never worth an engagement.
Much less to sharp condemnations
that carve away,
for never being sufficiently attracted
to any type of surplus,
overwhelming of presence,
smothering everything,
with its common forms of excess.
You have your cravings for bestiality,
condoned by official state decrees,
as the easiest way out.
Something you do not have to think about,
even when drowning in the deep end,
and washed up on random shorelines,
with the other wreckage.
------------------------------
190818D
------------
Did not want to suffer
that mid day sun
claiming to expose realities
that I never could believe in.
I wanted you in the dark,
but you ignored my suggestion.
You kept to the literal details,
when I wanted to forget them all.
I was entirely guilty
of not dissecting you that way.
The system trying to enforce
a specific level of forensic examination.
I do not even look at the dead
in that much metaphoric detail.
Letting them pass on,
in non specific generalities.
If you know about such things
you know about destructive testing
and what damage it does,
to what some refer to as love.
I wanted more than that,
so the damage was more extreme,
when it happened to the truth,
as perhaps it now always does.
-------------------------------------
190818E
-----------
You threw me into a stinking swamp
of pulled down into gross neglect.
That downward suction pull
that threatens to extinguish any vision.
You were someone
that I made the mistake of respecting.
Only to learn that it meant nothing
in the sordid scheme.
Noblesse oblige
means nothing in the new world.
Nothing is really looked after
in a land of infinite excuses.
Blind anyone who sees,
what anything is really all about.
Poke their eyes out
in tiny, but calculated ways.
You do not let anything get up and out,
that you can push down.
A sinking in harm's way,
and no chance of discovery.
Blitzkrieg attacks
on anything that tries to rise,
toward might be a good idea:
killed off before it gets out.
A pattern of cut wire executions,
meticulously disconnecting possibilities,
making anything more than idealism
a much too scarce resource.
----------------------------------
190818F
-----------
Lime light is something
that never comes when you need it.
It only comes when you need it least
of anything that you need.
Monkey shit
that falls from the trees,
and you end up covered in it,
stinking like hell.
A kind of wipe out,
that leaves you slip sliding down,
screaming insanity at false gods
that others all worship.
Crashing into unfortunate scenes,
that bring you no one
worth time of day or a nod
of vague recognition.
Nothing to the future,
any more than those conducting a massacre
are to the victims of history,
after the guns stop blazing.
The sort that forget you ever were
after they happen to get anything
that they should never get from you,
short of being flies for the fly swatter.
-------------------------------------------------
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