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Date: Thu, 4 Jul 2019 13:44:59 -0700 (PDT)
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Subject: Poems: 040719A - July 4th, 2019
From: Robert Morpheal <morpheal@yahoo.com>
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040719A
------------
Sun scald
into starburst edges
of fractured dream,
an only bright thing
on a bleached out horizon
breaking in to forever,
sitting it out,
in a condition
of kept waiting,
looking for someone
to replace
all the longings,
the radio silence
unbroken past static,
crowd noise,
scanning faces
for a frequency
to an open channel,
the news is not good
leaving bits of reality
blown apart,
social fractal patterns,
coalescing gas clouds
of private universes,
everyone was notified
to avoid the threat
of any connection,
they have bucket lists,
grocery lists,
lists to attend to,
keeping it up,
living it down,
getting ahead,
going somewhere,
kicking back,
and chilling out,
there is a song,
about strangers
playing in my head,
refused issue
of a permit to break down
any barriers,
staging a futile protest
is the very same,
division of assets,
past defence lines
firmly tightened around
hardened landscapes,
nothing ever lets up,
as to all that accounting
for something,
the sparrows squabble
claiming ownership,
over stale bread,
and there goes nothing,
as to any inspiration,
for a love poem.
--------------------
040719B
-----------
Everything is a struggle,
and then the struggle
of getting past
every larger ambition.
Getting stuck in Cliche,
spinning mental wheels
on desolate sandscapes,
stretched out as far as music.
Left to the sounds
of those wheels turning,
out familiar tunes,
scratched into dissonance.
Memory book clutter,
drowned out
stepping stones,
at a fatal crossing.
Little sand grain notes
filling the hourglass
until that too is worn away
into a dry sob collapse.
Plot becomes yarn,
descending into tall tale,
then nothing left
to negotiate.
It is all about betrayals,
into perpetual mirage
of every place and time
mocking possibilities.
Would have settled
with something less
but the offer was denied
any actual validity.
Bittersweet taste
between nearly and never,
dulls sense
and sensibilities.
Crisscrossing any map
between nowhere points,
of nothing
has been established.
All that hard work,
an exhumation
of the same corpse ,
reburied so many times.
-------------------------------
040719C
-----------
The sort of thing we reinvent,
turning it around and around
into shapes of excuse,
serving to evade anything
that we really wanted,
while pleading contentment
to every judge and jury.
Nothing to claim heroic,
by any physical definition,
presents no trophies,
that can serve to satisfy
burden of proof,
to clear persistent allegations
of wayward imagination.
There is no door
that opens with that key,
no matter what type of hole
you push it into.
A token not really
on any playing board,
for two or more players.
Control issues new orders,
demanding increased spending,
to make a public display
of all that loneliness,
becoming an object lesson
in sidewalk cafes.
Wallflower at the dance
tried to uproot itself
to take over the dance floor.
Never really invited
into any of the real dirt.
Left to withering away,
having been weeded out.
Mug shot image
of mistaken identity,
failing at plea bargaining
based on any self recognition,
objected to,
by the social prosecution,
demanding witnesses.
We have nothing in common,
beyond a nationality,
resulting in another rejection
of refugee status,
the way any artist feels
lacking real recognition
due to political imprisonment.
It is all about scoring,
replays of goals,
in half time dialogue,
becoming a shut out,
placed on waivers,
given an indefinite penalty
that threatens forever.
Not knowing where it is,
and not knowing how it got there,
never satisfies the interrogation.
The leaf turned over,
is torn off and condemned.
The seasonal process a continuity
of what is perishing.
------------------------
040719D
-----------
There was no point asking,
and at least not anymore.
She was a rare instance
of something he could love.
A fact leading to demands
for what he does not have.
Negotiations breaking down,
to irreconcilable differences
as concerns offers being made.
The mediator always arguing
the case on her behalf,
and threatening punitive action.
The sort of thing that passes now
as post-modern romance,
continually being recorded
into eternity's data banks.
It goes into a permanent record
of new ways to get it wrong.
Stories of the lucky ones
who slipped under the razor wire,
in mutual pursuit of happiness,
ignoring the facts,
knowing they would be scarred up
by the Moloch system.
Pop stars and politicos
allowed to get away with it,
feeding the media accounts
with the common delusions
of freedom for everyone,
locked into forever pursuit of it.
For others the futile gesture
towards anyone they ever loved,
cutting them off,
sharp as a guillotine blade
forever separation,
slicing as thin as bologna.
The remains rendered
the way meat becomes pet food,
ground up in the machinery
of endless argument.
A one sided debate
concerning class structure.
The Moloch system does not care
what the wounded choose
to deaden pain with,
as long as it is mass produced
is designed to do the most harm,
and can be made popular.
-------------------------------
The reference to Moloch is in direct reference to A. Ginsberg's poem "Howl"
, and used in a similar context as to the deliberate and pervasive, invasiv
e and violently contrary to any respect for human individuality, manipulati
on and abuse of human lives by the "system".
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