| Poems: 120819 - August 12th, 2019 |
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| Robert Morpheal (morpheal@yahoo.com) |
2019/08/13 15:32 |
110819A
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An enemy is winning
and there is no feeling
anything today.
Shut outs
and shut downs
of hostile takeovers.
Nothing intimate
representing any threats
to the new monotony.
Killing-field threshers
of dreams cut
down and short.
Occasionally ghosted
signposts of a past
on Battle Street.
Losing ground
in pushed back
to time runs out.
Archaeology of hopes
perpetually uncovers
toil turned waste.
Scraping the surface
uncovers artifacts
signifying past relation.
Disappointment layers
of tight sediment
displaying clutter.
A wilting swallow
of gut wrench frenzy
celebrates failure.
Wretched sense of it
no more than laundry
lines of reasoning.
Hung out
on crowded ledgers
in pretense of civilization.
Another push off
fallen into novel ways
of being emptied.
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110819B
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The official position
is the usual lie
that ties together.
Bundled convenience
being delivered
directly to any home.
In memoriam:
memories as reruns
of common content.
Everyone taking it
as something personal
to their own irrelevance.
The once were places
that made any difference
have long ago closed.
No chance left over
that anything pays off
in the long run.
Once brave enough
to believe eventually
that turn would come.
Our mythologies ended
at being shown out
those one way doors.
Searching ourselves
and no idea as to clues
of where or when.
Old tragedies hit hardest
after they have aged
in a ferment of alone.
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120819A
-----------
Battery runs down
and something inside
goes dead.
A blinking idea
naked red dot
flashes for attention.
Annihilation being
the immanent fact
of any inclinations.
Nothing survives
that much scrutiny
while trying to escape.
Find it as deceased
in the morning
as a romance novel.
Flip the pages
surveying the evidence
of gone wrong.
Juke box illusions
playing for keeps
in the land of Wishful.
A song grabs away
from the squalor
that makes up reality.
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120819B
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Barking dogs
break open the night
grieving a day's bones.
Pain in the ass
cannot sleep a toss
to evade morning.
Rude awakenings
on the wrong side
of always cruel love.
Broken out
from dream lives
where it happens.
Could never imagine
that much tension
bound up in one place.
Visions of death
in the afternoon sun
baked hard as bricks.
The street life
of their usual habits
coming and going.
Leaving the subject
of peculiar disinterest
a mere observation.
That treatment
designed to cure
any magical thinking.
Nothing sympathetic
in today's rumours
past a rude solicitation.
No getting to know
beyond knee jerk
reactions to passing.
A silent song is heard
from the other side
of nowhere.
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120819C
-----------
It is all up tight
and played at close
to the same gesture
shadow puppet dance
on cave walls cliche.
Ritual formality
in narrowed confine
ease of prediction
and nothing strays
from blandest colours.
A funeral decor
rapid burial plot
for upright stiffs
with pull string phrases
wake of identity.
Nothing to join up
beyond polite
stand around
verge of embarrassed
to be at loose ends.
Times have changed
to expressionless
and no one calls
about that
or any other matter.
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120819D
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Bring back the wild
of the living
past a slow slaughter
of desires.
Resurrections
of what we have lost
into history book
epiphanies.
Suffered expulsions
down long corridors
becoming waste baskets
of frequent destination.
Forgetting everything
about what it was like
before we became
a game of statues.
Clickety clack of trains
and keyboards
synchronized to opaque
variety shows
of distilled despair.
The same conclusions
kicking it out of
imagination nailed down
tight to the floor
and not to get up again.
What could be done
with half a chance
beyond monumental
as pyramids
and other odd shapes.
Replay the message
and nothing to say
that does not translate
into new varieties
of the same old hate.
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