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Subject: Poems: 020918 - September 2nd, 2018
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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020918A
-----------
We do not want the past.
We only want for
the things we hoped
the past would bring.
Cancel tedious debates
as to permissions
granted or denied
by invaders of personal space.
Parasites of experience,
feeding on repetitious boredom
mirrored as ritual versions
of their own secret fears.
Getting away
becomes an oxymoron,
comprised of total avoidance
of anything novel or stimulating.
The week end stripped down
to being more boring
then the deadly dull week,
of high pressure formalities.
Everything you think or do,
is nowadays too strange
for an alien species to understand,
and so they all keep well away.
Your own outer space
is that vast dark void
of exploring for life forms
that might enter into conversation.
A tedious process,
that could lead to discovery,
of some sort of vague meaning
that has evaded recognition.
We go into orbit
circling around each other,
looking for a landing site,
that isn't hostile ground.
Samples collected for analysis,
in hopes that something lives
outside capsules of ego
swallowed up into commonplace.
More often it is nothing
more than the destruction,
of having crashed through
the wrong barriers.
-----------------------
020918B
-----------
It doesn't matter what you want,
if you can never get anything
that you ever want,
beyond more kinds of wanting.
Another sort of board game,
where nothing really ever matters
because it is nothing but a game
played on a board.
The only thing you get from that
is that all the moves have rules
that everyone insists
that all of the players follow.
You don't get further than that,
until you realize the truth
that all the tokens are tokens
representing nothing.
--------------------------
020918C
------------
It all slowly falls apart,
and the glue doesn't really matter.
An embrittled reality,
crumbling slowly.
Bits and pieces
of seemed to be,
broken off your sense of it
and swept away.
Try to hold on,
to anything that comes along,
in a dust storm dry flood
of continual erosion.
It doesn't take that much,
to break it down completely,
into smaller and smaller
increments of dread.
-------------------------
020918D
-----------
Sometimes it is about everything
that is forbidden,
making no real difference
to anything at all.
Beating around
the outskirts of town,
craving a cheap thrill,
to break down the boredom.
Everything has closed down,
and no one knows or says why.
They are digging in deeper,
as to out of sight, out of mind.
Vague insinuations
that big money decisions came
and went,
about it all.
You think you have gone crazier
than the craziest fool,
departed from understanding
as to what is really going down.
You are missing something
and no idea what it was or is,
and everyone seems to know,
but no one will tell you.
A long stricken off list
of nothing to offer,
creating that blank space
as to nothing left to say.
-----------------------------
030918A
------------
Deluge of late summer,
cascades volleys of threat,
battering at the landscape.
It all comes down,
to fallen into another hole
where nothing thrives or lives.
Sky becomes a barking dog,
defining territorial intent,
with darkly incisive aggression.
Seems far too political
a clash of differing opinions
dividing sky and earth.
A blanket of pierced clouds
bled out into gushing
torrents of empty.
The truth made irrelevant,
to anything that is carried
down a swollen river bed.
It all gets dumped down,
into the valley below,
on top of tin horsemen.
The lucky ones
get to ride away,
from the mudslide.
-----------------------
030918B
-----------
Winnowing good from bad,
isn't my thing anymore.
I have been threshed too often,
and all that was left was chaff
when they finished their taking.
Sometimes that is all that there is
that they leave you with,
having taken out the rest
of whatever you might have been,
and were going on about.
Making you realize you could have
chosen to spend your time
far more frivolously and wisely,
at something more respectable.
Could have been someone,
that is actually liked by others
for their silent strength,
and thus proving something.
It leaves you with what you are,
as to being a straw man,
head stuffed full of short straws.
Scarecrow left standing in a field,
for birds to peck at.
-----------------------
030918C
-----------
It feels like an end of the line,
racing ahead,
to rail's end and plummeting,
in somersault dives,
down to wanting to disappear
from nearly everyone's lives.
No reason to miss the disturbance
lingering in their peripheral vision,
where you remain hardly noticed,
and not on the guest lists.
Punished for failing to write in,
the right accompaniment.
There is no harmony to be found
in anything that you do.
You do not match up to anything
that they allow into the catalogue,
and you are out of place
no matter where you go.
It is not really about choice,
and what sometimes matters
is where you actually shop
for those hideous rags
that you are condemned for wearing
out, in full public view.
If you had the right candy,
you might have seemed sweeter
to someone with a craving.
One failing leads to another,
and you are still being punished,
for the size of your allowance.
You can never spring yourself free,
of knowing it takes much more
than you can ever get any of.
So you drag your dead lines along,
somewhere near the bottom,
where it is swimming with garbage.
You might catch something,
\that might kill you a little faster.
Catch your death of cold,
no matter how it turns out,
because everything is cold all the time,
even in the heat of summer.
---------------------------------
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