Poems: 130413 - April 13th, 2013

[Robert Morpheal]

010413A
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All the little curses
that take up the time.
Everything you wanted
but were always declined.

They blame it on religion,
They blame it on the social trends.
Maybe you were too red,
maybe you were too blue in the end.

They blame it on money,
they blame it on TV.
You never do the right thing,
and you are never really free.

It is in the color commentary,
it is written in between the lines,
where you always die to me,
and I die to you endless times.

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080413A
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You didn’t want to go with me,
where the going was hard.
I left you looking
through the plate glass windows
at all the promises they made.
They were all on display,
with the price tags well hidden.
I didn’t promise you a thing,
but they had all warned you
that everything I whispered to you
was something strictly forbidden.

They were my friendly enemies,
and they always did their very best
to take you and keep you prisoner.
Sometimes that was something more
than I could have offered.

I saw you sitting in a street side bar,
contemplating taking some poison.
You knew it would make you give up
most of your best kept secrets.
I chanced to hear something
of the persistent interrogations.

There is always another war,
in the sounds and the smells
that end being carried on the winds.
There is no peace where we came from,
and there is no peace where we are going.
They only give you a different uniform
but it is always the same calling.
There is a war in the heavens,
and a war deep down in Hell.
There is no purity or truth to be found,
that did not rise from the ruins of battle.

If you had chosen to come home with me,
we could have made war on the bed.
It does not matter who conquers,
who is on top or who is on the bottom,
it is always about the same old struggle.
We could spend hours planning campaigns,
locked in the diplomacy of our affections,
waiting for the moment of betrayal.
One of us is always the traitor,
and one of us remembers Machiavelli,
as we write our stains onto the sheets.

There are as many kinds of wounds
as there are different kinds of people.
Some of us prefer penetration,
while others prefer the superficial.
Most of us have learned to kill
and never to look back at the dead.
Some of us prefer to be executed
rather than remaining a prisoner.
I was the one revolutionary
who thought that we might escape,
all of that dying to each other.

It never happened that way,
but I am still fighting for freedom
in a war I can never hope to win.
I left you with the others,
knowing you had given up the fight.
It is always in the early morning
that we gather in the wounded
and tally up the dead.
I wish I could cover you with kisses
and we could pull down the shades
and block out the light.

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090413A
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I don’t know the way out,
and I know I’m not really in.
I take my turn, play my hand,
though we never really win.

I don’t go for religions,
and I don’t watch the late show.
I see the world drift downstream,
though I don’t go with the flow.

I don’t have the right connections,
and I don’t know who to call.
I make and unmake plans,
tacking blueprints to the wall.

I don’t know if you want me,
and I don’t know if you care.
I wanted to whisper in your night,
that we could get away if we dare.

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130413A
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You were the same as the rose,
stabbing me to draw blood,
wanting to know whether it is red.

It is not the way that it seems,
when you tie me to a twisted tree,
wanting to know how it feels.

I wanted to go much further,
but you always held too much back,
teasing me with what it might be like.

You were never the one
who would ever go far and high enough
to really set me free to be your prisoner.

I was hoping that you would torture me,
in some extremely Victorian way,
that would make ne unable to leave you.

I keep thinking of all those contrivances
that I imagined that you would use,
as more playing pieces in our game together.

Now I don’t know where you have gone,
my pretty torturer,
we seemed a perfectly elegant couple.

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130413B
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I recall something about a great poet,
who had a gift for using his big balls
and too much alcohol, to get girls.

I was never as lucky as he was,
lacking the big balls he boasted of,
and not being able to drink as much.

The angels are always terribly cruel,
in what they give and what they take away,
never really listening to what we ask for.

I keep trying to write the perfect line,
that would unlock any door
that I might chance to want to open.

I juggle syllables to amuse the heavens,
catching them falling in sequence,
one head after the other, while keeping mine.

It all becomes a kind of love letter,
addressed to no one in particular,
but knowing what she might look like.

Not knowing where to go to sit and write
becomes the worst type of misery,
turning one into a hermit in a cave of words.

You abandoned me here,
and I do not even know your name,
but I remember your beautiful face.

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130413C
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The list of things
that I want to know
something of,
before I chance to die,
has become too long
a long list.

Even the intervals between
excessively mundane moments
have become too long,
making more desperate
to fill in those spaces
with varieties of suffering.

Everything seems too long,
in its taking up time,
but failing to satisfy
any of those deeper urges
that push their way up the list
fighting to get on top.

I see your pretty face,
and I want you to do it to me,
before the world comes to an end,
denying us any chance to consent
to one or another shared affliction,
where we entangle our broken bodies.

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