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Subject: Poems: 281218 - December 28th, 2018
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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251118A
-----------
A stretched out day,
rubber band,
snaps back,
leaving a red line mark.
Feeling cut down to bones,
in the endless recoil actions,
everything always snapping back,
into formation.
Never cross those lines,
ever changing lines.
Lines cutting across and up,
dividing you.
Wrap it up tightly
around the pain,
until the day goes numb
blurring sunrise and sunset.
Feeling like bad meat
thrown to the dogs.
They sniff at it,
maul it, and walk away.
Your lights punched out,
in new and novel ways.
Watch the sky rush away,
the way bird droppings keep watch.
A smear tactic,
unpleasant splatter.
Never worth anything much,
and kept clinging to something.
---------------------
251118B
-----------
Watching worlds fall apart
at sutured seams.
Political surgeries
and lobotomized leadership.
The frauds have won,
and the rest of us are broken
merely a nuisance,
sometimes too underfoot.
Keeping us paranoid
about little transfusions
of begging and grovelling
for a bit of chicken scratch.
Heavy doses of boredom,
worse than a drugged stupor.
Secretly gnawed on,
every time we turn our backs.
Fill our heads
with the usual fears and dreams
ending at nothing realized,
beyond a passage of time.
It is quite certain
that reprieve will come too late.
You always arrive just in time
to watch the executions.
I am condemned to sit alone,
the way an insect is condemned
to wander about
inside a killing jar.
I must have amused someone
to have gotten this far,
as to dragging strangled words
from my throttled throat.
Not that I really believe anymore
that anyone really cares.
The medium has flooded them
and drowned out any message.
Pouring a mid day drink,
and wishing it were morphine.
Kerouac said it killed the pain,
of all that desolation.
I looked everywhere I could look,
but I could not find anything more.
Everything we had being long closed,
gutted, and derelict.
Life becomes that empty space
that there is no way to fill,
beyond that the endless walls
of all those generation gaps.
----------------------------------
281218A
-----------
No one replied,
and no one was interested.
Better chance getting attention
with a red hot poker.
Same species of cruelty
thriving in the same ways,
adding a technological edge
to their blades.
Not one word can be hidden,
long enough to have effect.
Not one wish kept secret
long enough to come true.
You avoid writing to me,
fearing the censors
intercepting every word
in a determination of outcomes.
--------------------------------------
281218B
-----------
Some of us struggle endlessly
to feel what it is like to be free,
in some wild way or other
that really feels free
of all rigid and forced conclusions,
when there is nothing left to having
that feels like real freedom.
That forced march
from one determinism to another,
cattle prod herded along
toward peculiar sorts of insanity.
Sometimes to the illusion
that breaking something
might set us free.
Craving that divine madness
that makes a prisoner believe
that the prisoner IS in fact free.
Something that differs,
from the usual regimen
ritualized exhaustion
of everything always the same.
That bad trip, round again trip,
as to give us our daily flash back
eternal recurrence of identity,
call it experienced,
at servile drone movements
in alien gesture language:
Psyche flayed down to the bone.
Continually threatened
as to becoming discarded,
dumpster trash clean out material.
Something no one wants,
and no one ever really wanted.
I have never made a good deal
even when it comes to drugs.
I am no prophet
crying in the wasteland wilderness.
No answers to give,
and no idea as to the way out.
I am not in on anything,
and I don't know anyone in person
that others count worth knowing.
Does not leave much to me
in the way of hopes for anything.
They cut me off
every time I reached.
I cannot even account
for all the losses,
in the confusion and so quickly.
Something similar to a midget
trying to reach for the cookie jar,
that is on the top shelf,
and having no ladder.
Look but do not touch,
and everything, really everything,
ends up out of your league.
---------------------------------
281218C
------------
Don't really know
how I endure it.
From the beginning,
wondering if I can make it,
to the ending,
through the endless
in between.
I am killing,
or have already killed,
the man in the mirror.
I could not take any more
crap from him,
or from anyone similar.
Too many expectations.
Maybe someone liked him,
but I don't know about that.
No one told me,
anything about it.
There is no actual proof
as to that being a fact,
beyond vicious hearsay,
The vague rumours
that circulate
but never lead to anything,
leaving that flicker
of dead stars
luring into their fictions
of impossible bliss.
It never was going
and no way to get it there,
despite those persistent lies
that there is,
if you keep looking for it,
and maybe in heaven
if you believe in fairy tales.
---------------------------------
A few scribbled word doodles on a grim grey afternoon, that seems to have "no future" of any sort.
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