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Subject: Poems: 130119 - January 13th, 2019
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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130119A
-----------
When you are left to nothing
past that last emotion
that feels anything at all,
in total frustration
of crying and screaming
all at the same time.
No one will ever hear you,
even if you let loose
the loudest sound
that you could ever possibly make.
That moment that it is obvious
that there is no answer.
----------------------------
130119B
-----------
Jerked around
until some of the strings break off,
leaving various twitches.
Habits you try to maintain,
pretending that it leads to survival.
Trying to pass as something
between the closet and the exit.
No one ever comes back
after they leave by that door.
-----------------------------------
130119C
-----------
Tormented with whatever it is,
that you cannot possibly love,
until they kill your tastes
for both the reality and the simulation.
Too worn away and frayed out
at the emotional edges
to engage in the usual lies
about liking anything at all
that they throw at you.
Always polite gestures
having trickled out
into something turned rancid.
Wrap it up and toss it quickly,
as more of the same stale dated crap
passed off as a bargain.
You cannot stand the thought,
much less what passes as sensation,
invading the victim mind.
That is what comprises the love poetry
of the new infinity.
The only one you really want to meet
is the one that actually still knows
a secret way around all of that.
All of the others seem window dressing
to someone's sick idea
of nothing but a repetition of movements,
recycled definitions of a new sanity.
You do not want what they want for you,
and all that they do is lock you out anyway,
while feeding you promiscuous lines
made up of total and absolute bullshit.
You want to do something else,
and that means ending up struggling
against a downstream current of the dead
bloated and cadaverous expressions
all flooding in the opposite direction.
Seems the way to never be about anything
that anyone ever happens to want,
in their attraction to the stench of death
that emanates from prevailing fads and styles.
The abolishing of any real difference,
making obsessed with buying mercy
the way a legendary parrot strives
to survive on a pirate's shoulder
by repeating fake media phrases.
----------------------------------------
130119D
------------
That preference to let beautiful things be,
and to allow them to speak for themselves,
is something peculiarly radical.
It collides with that pervasive past
that sought to determine what they could say
as well as how and where they could say it.
Those sorts of massacres could
eradicate entire species and tribes.
Tribes that lacked any insignia,
and species failing any recognition.
It is easier to eradicate
something that remains unrecognized.
Taxonomy being another form of violence,
cataloguing the similar
and eliminating the differences.
Another engine of imposed conformity,
as brutally effective as are uniforms
meant to iron out and press the personality.
Translucent and brittle teardrops,
of those flowers that were dried and pressed
between the pages of history books.
It made them as fragile as are memories,
all turned so bitter sweet
in adding ourselves to all those losses.
-----------------------------------------------
130119E
-----------
The one that really knows anything
is always the one that holds any real key.
That is why they keep you imprisoned
in a human sea, drowning in ignorance.
The crowds washing over and around you,
in waves chopping at your head,
their tides lapping at your eroded feet,
always trying to carry you away,
to wash you up on some desolate shore.
The only messengers that actually came
were rats that swim around and around,
until they drown in their own bottles.
It is all meant to keep you ugly
and forever scurrying after crumbs of bread,
in all those hideous ways
that conspire to deny you any real choice.
Whomever knew anything more
simply did not let you in on any of it.
Bodies littering the beach,
where they tried to push up against reality,
and it pushed back hard and fast.
What it really means to be so polished
rounded out, and made to seem so stone hard.
Anything can be ended at broken up
to being shoved down the throat of an hourglass.
Time is found out as being the great pretender
forever masquerading as the healer.
Play your game of chance, against Death,
to find it is Death that cheats at every game.
The glass is forever half full or half empty
as to the same foul poison,
that an imposed thirst keeps forcing you to sip.
You cannot ever have it your way,
and you cannot ever stand it being their way,
so you imagine what it might feel like
to take in and ingest a full dose by any means.
A life that is forever sliding down the edge
of a long, sharp knife.
It cuts everything you could have cared about,
carving away every hope you chanced to imagine.
Leaving you putting in time and crossing it off.
The way another worry bead is pushed aside.
The way you have been pushed aside
as to whatever would have made you happy,
leaving only hot pursuit by various terrors.
The inevitable dreaming of getting away,
without actually being able to go anywhere.
The only doors that really matter
are the ones that you have no idea how to open.
The sadist knows that you will run out of time
in which to chance to win any real answers
before your walls close in, and your air runs out.
The one that really knows anything,
is always the one that holds any real key.
--------------------------------------------------
130119F
----------
Late, horribly late, for everything,
and not one actual mourner in the crowd
realizing at how undone it has all become.
Late afternoon, and far too late
to know how to pick up any of the pieces.
Cannot ever make anything come true,
when always so hard up against it,
trying to get by and to squeeze through
to some promised land
that you cannot seem to blow out of mind.
All those guns to your head,
until all anything apparently does is to turn
the way the barrel turns when spun,
dropping a dead weight into the abyss
where nothing ever comes up.
Pistol whipped brain circuits,
with all those shorted out and broken wires,
from having been strung out and strung along,
into an electron soup of forgetting,
that pretends at being fractals of information.
No one told me, and I did not know,
what any of it actually means.
They knew I would try to read into the lies,
trying to find some truth between their lines
to fill some of those empty places.
I never found anyone who actually cares,
about anything that I ever really wanted to do,
but I tried to read something in to that too,
trying to read between their lies,
to fill in some of those empty places.
It drove me to dancing with strangers,
in vain attempts to wear out my passions.
Try to drown myself in a dense crowd
of pretending that I am no longer lonely,
but it was too late for that too.
------------------------------------
130119G
------------
If there were a way to write myself out,
I would have accomplished that long ago,
and I would have been out already.
That after having lost at any real chance
at writing myself in,
to anything I really wanted to be in on.
I never found any real knack
to writing myself into, any in and out game plan,
the way that some seem to have written themselves.
Leaves wondering who is writing me off,
and who might be writing me up,
after my being written down by someone else.
Some people can get whatever they came for,
with nothing more than word,
and some people are never really believed
as to anything that they happen to say,
that would make any real difference on that subject.
The same words never having the same values,
when they come from different mouths,
or from the tips of different fingers on different hands
all pointing in that same direction,
that some get to go, and some never get to.
That serves as another economy of language,
where some get to profit, and some get nothing
from their DNA of syllables,
strung together, and strung out in dark rows,
of one person's praise is another's blame and blues.
--------------------------------------------------------------
Best I can do nowadays at writing some love poems. The love poetry of the new infinity.
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