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Date: Thu, 13 Jun 2019 11:24:24 -0700 (PDT)
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Subject: Poems: 130619 - June 13th, 2019
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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040619A
------------
Twig of a thought
snapped spine
reading wilted futures
traced along veins
sketching out
failed attempts.
They have broken you,
right off,
and watch the tree
from a distance
snapped off,
to paralytic.
There is no sway,
from all that separation,
threatening
dividing up,
bits and pieces,
into dread.
-------------
130619A
------------
I went there,
where there were others,
and looked for you.
They stared at me,
briefly,
before looking away.
Their game plan,
in their huddle,
made it obvious.
No point in playing,
I left their field,
of breaking and wounding.
They tackled one other,
amid interference,
until we lost touch.
We were no one
that anyone cheered on,
from the sidelines.
No one bet on us,
so we knew the odds,
and felt the penalties.
Heard the replays,
and the commentary,
then read it in the paper.
Add it to a memory book,
no photo,
and no official statement.
--------------------------------
130619B
-----------
I remember you,
because I would have loved you,
and having no other reasons.
The sort of perfect ending,
as to more missing pieces,
that allege my wrong intent.
Another trial in absentia,
and we were both executed,
for the crime of coming too close.
I remain guilty of thinking,
we should have come much closer,
than our moment of revolt.
---------------------------------
130619C
-----------
They try to beat it into you,
the way a vampire is hunted,
with a sharp wooden stake.
Fearing you will suck the life blood out,
of one or another of their schemes
to take on only perfect prisoners.
I do not know how to get away,
but I think about it often,
and it becomes an obsession.
Mass media deforms my imagination
as to what that might really imply,
and implications can be everything.
I hear they are working on a cure,
for the incurable,
but have not found one yet.
Something always goes wrong,
ending far short of a miracle,
as to another turn of the screw.
After your bad dreams,
you find that reality is something
that they never prepared you for.
The impossible challenge
of finding something to insert,
into the lacunae of a required text.
Whatever you were assigned,
having proven totally useless,
in the course of those experiments.
Learning all the wrong things,
purely because they keep you alive,
contrary to bettor expectations.
The long shot,
but you cannot ever finish,
coming out of the starting gate.
Someone wants you doped up,
so they insert the syringe,
to keep those legs running.
Their covert intention
is to have you stumble
and fall.
Only another prelude
to being put down,
by the whole assembly.
The assassin exits,
after carrying out his foreplay,
and missing on the orgasm.
Even a happy dream would be better
than what the slot machine offers,
when you insert your quarter.
------------------------------------
130619D
------------
There was a time
when I actually believed,
we would meet up,
by means of pure random chance.
Eventually I knew better
and became seized with reluctance,
as to walking in circles,
trying to hit on that elusive moment.
It is all really cruel that way,
reminding me of being shunted
down dead sidings,
at the far end of abandoned lines.
No one heard the whistle sounding,
before the fatal crash,
crumpling up of circumstances
already rusted out to wrecked.
I thought you were beautiful,
but you thought nothing of me,
and I could feel the pry bars
straining to pull it all apart.
A rebel by nature,
that dares to think of you,
in the forbidden zone,
but never as to anyone in particular.
We play out our absurd parts,
and then it is over,
having added a mild bit of amusement
for the larger audience.
----------------------------
130619E
-----------
Gazing across the landscape,
of various faces,
trying to catch an eye,
the way butterflies are caught.
Nothing that makes an imprint,
concerning further validation
in a too complicated taxonomy,
of who, and what and where.
Calendar stripped down,
having been searched for clues,
where it provides its shelter
to discarded calling cards.
You were given the number,
that you were too weak to dial,
only to be made to feel obliged
to rejecting further invitations.
The system grips and shakes you,
in its relentless jaws,
always threatening to break you,
the way it breaks everything else up.
It sometimes feels like rapid ascent,
but it only brings you down harder,
into another routine situation
consigned to the same old frustrations.
Makes any drug seem mild
in direct comparison,
to the shaking sweat agitation
of repeated withdrawals.
Getting teased away in between,
as it concerns being found out.
That is enough to make you guilty,
of more than a quick death.
Leaves that sense of total disbelief
that we ever actually met,
while exiting from dreamworld,
and putting on the usual inhibitions.
Another quick dose of the same pain,
realizing that you still feel it.
The usual jerk around,
on the end of someone's rope.
It looked so beautiful,
and seemed so promising.
That is where a dull knife goes in,
and then cuts steadily away.
----------------------------------
Some new poems about love and death. Sometimes it is very hard to know any difference between the two, the way life is manipulated in this utterly gone wrong dreamtime society.
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