| Poems: 050819 - August 5th, 2019 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2019/08/05 22:58 |
050819A
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It is midnight
on the borders
of the soul.
A suicide cult
gathered round
in a tight circle.
Of slipping away
and swallowed up
in small increments.
Nothing in it
beyond some games
that people play.
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050819B
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The big illusion
that we matter
as anything at all.
A blather of idiot
in make believe
significance.
We go on and on
being child's play
wind up toys.
Clatter chatter
chatter clatter
bouncing it around.
Running up against
that stiff wall
of laugh tracks.
Nothing said
can ever be yours
nor can it be true.
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050819C
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Nothing to claim
other than bitter pills
to swallow.
Cut off at the pass
and buried
in another rock fall.
Left to walk
circles
in forever spirals.
Narrowed squeeze
intent on the squeeze out
of whatever is loved.
All of any of it
can never pay
any price of admission.
Standing outside
left to looking up
no one at all.
Blank wall stares
a cruel time
of landed wrong.
Picked up the pieces
but never given
any real significance.
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050819D
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Normal seeks normal
say the advertisements
to make a point
of overriding concern
under the scrutiny
of might find out.
A boring pace
creeps stop and go
day to tedious day
along boulevards
of shattered dream
surrenders.
White flag wipes
remaining brains
off the brow
trickle of salt
water stain crust
lines dark fabrics.
White is the colour
of white out lives
lived vicariously
on flat screen
emotionless plateaus
sparsely appointed.
Conversation
picks at a few words
from the media litter
strewn on a grave yard
mine field twitter
of subject chirps.
Knowing what to say
is a lifetime study
specializing
in avoidance tactics
to get around
explosive moments.
Seduction is not
what it used to be
in black and white
post war boomer
Hollywood produced
states of mind.
Water cooler talk
is a small vocabulary
of the same phrases
similar to church
liturgy and response
in predictable order.
It is alright to disagree
if everyone disagrees
in the same manner
moving forward
full consensus
to the same mistake.
No one wants
to be labelled
disagreeable
while secretly craving
only to be seen
with the right people.
We erase each other
in successive turn
depending on appropriation
of the initial argument
effectively disappearing
at the right moments.
Eventually it extends
to entire lifetimes
of ceaseless effort
becoming erased
from any recognition
in specialist areas.
Not everyone gets
to actually play
and fewer get to score
a place on the program
of invites
and introductions.
It was something
for a few yesterdays
but not anymore
when you need it most
finding what you built
has been torn down.
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050819E
-----------
Some write love poetry
while others are forbidden
anything other than dissent.
A sort of begging to differ
from masses of the same
pop culture drivel
pretense at emotive
but never really loving
past common fears
of object loss relations.
Superficial definitions
might have been enough
if left undisturbed
during the ferment
bubbling up
into something heady
carrying off
unshackled from reason
for a dizzy fling
into sexual oblivion.
Some contented in that
access to another drug
want for nothing more
than scent of rut
into moist places
loss of reasoning
to lethal stabs
of fall and forget
injunctions, infractions
and breaches of parole.
Getting that pass
into restricted zones
past the gate guards
assigned to gossip duty
hearsay surveillance
watching who gets
and who is sentenced out
for crossing over
narrow territorial lines
through no man's land.
What is love now
outside of definitions
contrived by psychologists
medicated by psychiatrists
frowned on by the police
and chastised by religions
turned into a commodity
put up for sale or rent
in a marketplace
of skin deep propositions.
The marketing team
has not approved the advertising
and legal is balking
at some of the wordings
while the banker is demanding
a full credit check
of assets and liabilities
a passport is required
providing a complete list
of agreeable destinations.
The singers of songs
no longer know what to sing
in ballads
from the war zone
nothing being left
uncensored
to broken implications
black lined out portions
that authorities disavow
any knowledge of.
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050819F
-----------
A poet is a notebook
full of sins
that keep alive the myths
of the soul.
Looking for the one
who would enact a page
selected
from that register.
In an observatory
of nothing being pure
from the beginning
to the end.
We all slide through
paper thin openings
if we are to arrive
anywhere at all.
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050819G
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Searched morning
and evening places
for more than remembrances
strewn among bits
of furtive text
dancing insect feet
from screen to screen.
Where was that place
that was never found
where the loneliness ends
outside of day dream
urban whispers
breaking cadence
among countless footfalls.
Always a wrong dance
at the wrong time
and Danse Macabre
sound of bones
gone helter skelter
across the dance floor
into cryptic solitude.
Left to wanting
something of promises
appearing on fragments
of ancient history
posters plastered over
tops of one another
in solemn requiem.
Feelings left for dead
and buried
a thousand times
on the edge of shores
watching for something
that never arrives
on the ill winds.
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Some things are never known until it is too late, but those are too often t
he most important things that change everything else. So we gather our rema
ining mistakes around us for whatever small solace that those can give. Kno
wing that no matter how much we hoped there is nothing else.
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