Poems: 171022 - October 17th, 2022

[Robert Morpheal]

011022A
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We are the scarred up
to be thrown away
carrying our scars inside
these bags that hide them
from a perfect disgust.

The damaged ones
too battered and torn
for making presentations
in markets of flesh sack
gnaws on bone.

Ideals of youth
a vain apologetic
covering extravagant
beauty and lust
cleaves to and apart.

An ocean waves its own
longings to and fro
forced into synchronous
stutters of brutal rhythm
simulated sex.

If that is innocence
youth is innocent
of its criminal being
pursuits and passions
forge of idols from desires.

How we became
being no one's business
but it begins in childhood
as does every failure
suffering multiple tries.

Bones of I-Ching
where truth makes claim
splitting heated crack
baked brittle from fragile
crucible toss of pipes.

Those winds of fray
tearing asunder sounds
behind walls and fences
hiding desolate stretches
cultivated with pastime.

We are the bones
thrown into furnaces
made extract of finality
an a-priori disintegration
worming ruined cores.

Hacked apart
falsified reasoning
the dirge litany
corrodes and wears out
those time lines.

Time the reapers
stalking displaced ash
cannot be something
given recognition makes
all objects of desire.

Legacies of idylls
sucked out at length
of ancient marrow bone
screaming mind ideas
from desperate invalids.

We line up outside
denied place within
refinements' birthing wombs
where some espoused
that more precious culture.

The iconic problems
where idols grow precedent
to love of any made
ideals as hard things
into hard mould muscles.

Pounded into shapes
the way we beat dough
into loaves baked bread
coated fat and sweat
bitten at and severed off.

Cruellest of creatures
feels nothing at rising
from ashen squat relic
purified amalgams
melding cold with fury.

Persisting bold
at the hunt for signs
soft warm bits
tried to escape
from the feeding frenzy.

Whole worlds to crumbs
swallowed moments
leaving luminous red
shifted blood spatter
on disintegrated sands.

A universe itself
entirely monumental
to its own passing
fancied and suggested
sugar coated meanings.

We never understood
futility of crystallized
salts of a Dead Sea
existence in deep eyes
harbouring fatale.

A cargo of dreams
loaded up and sets sail
already wrecked
by when of discovery
under guns of ambition.

We are not the ones
claiming flawless
perfect and immaculate
freed from sins and stains
without worn or broken.

The future a myth
remaining well out
beyond any such reach
but we keep grasping
and clutching.

Parted experiences
include various functions
more gladly discarded
facsimiles of renovation
gutted out and rebuilt.

From the ground up
digging empty plots
sake of rigid organs
formed concrete and steel
spiked prominences.

We are pushed down
from where we dreamt
stairways opening
impossible heights
of glimpsed sacrifices.

It rolls down
bruises of stairs
an endless succession
left behind at each step
what gave life.

Impaled on stakes
imposing firm beliefs
everything tries
for that better future
that is always overcome.

Sounds are emanating
deep end
at the slaughterhouse
a muttering chaos
of extreme unctions.

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121022A
------------

If sounds of words stumble
it does not matter
what they really say.

We slash them down
where they are stretched
full out along the line.

A writer must be as merciless
as a good gardener
in the weeding and trimming.

The pull out
is always more important
than the push in.

Defiant of gravity
because of everything good
going up not down.

Acquiring that sex
that is a sexless sex
defined in a syllabus.

Dissemination spurts
from ivory tower
phallic outbursts.

It is the idea
rather than the act
comes springing out of.

Nothing is becoming
being out of nothing
vibrating the string.

Making tight the cord
that binds us
to simulated life.

It always elevates
to a rarefied condition
excising soul breath.

Out of mind theories
pretense embodies
that whole universe.

Where love is
only a plea bargain
sort of excuse.

-----------------

121022B
-----------

Feeling as on edge restless
as that cat on a hot tin roof
being left out of the cool.

The cool was exorcised
and the places it hid out
all closed tight.

Some jealous musician
blew the note
bringing it all down.

Now the only true tones
that ever get played
are arguments about money.

Trumpet sounded Jericho
fresh paint walls
heaved sighs made history.

Rubble that remains
always knows
what no one will say.

No one works that hard
to put pieces together
except students of history.

Progress is a jerk
transports fast food between
bank heist get aways.

Pure gold and platinum
the mass market rage
gets axe man paid.

Choppity chop chop
everything getting chopped
the way it comes down.

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141022A
------------

Sanity is not of this world
but only the rising cost
of margarine.

A creeping chaos
spreads across a yellowed
blossoming land.

Inventing printing presses
preserved the silly things
people commonly uttered.

Repetition being repeated
avoidant of the blur
that is common speech.

Ways they used to make
first and last impressions
on each other's thin skins.

Keep to the word
that gets coined
reward and retribution.

Language is a threat
even if the level varies
and very little being said.

Deep inked imprints
illustrating parchment whimsy
to pixel point moments.

Illustrated manuscript
catalogues mental aberrations
studies of dark lore.

Contemporary street scenes
in diluted deluded context
pin pricks to a new virginity.

The new sacre bleu
inks in portable gods
all lacking cathedrals.

Betty Boop and Wilbur
make ex-cathedra statements
next to a hot apocalypse.

Those who “get it”
feeling compelled to say
no more than “so what”.

The Sun may shine
or may not for specimens
kept behind glass.

They fade gradually
embrittled by light
and a tense atmosphere.

The old days gone down
to the last gold watch
given to lifelong prisoners.

No parole officers
available to supervise
early release into emptied.

Only sting and kick
onto blackened streets
dragging long chains.

The length of a chain
becoming the measure
first and last links.

Always ends as it began
gathering living and dead
networks of ghosts.

Anchors all torn away
connecting broken crowns
made no one and nothing.

--------------------------------

171022A
-----------

Parts that are missing
make for a stripped stem
without any flowers.

If only we could
be everything completely
sufficient in solitude.

What we miss out on
we must never mention
to avoid typical argument.

It only seeks to stuff
the hollows and spaces
in the most cruel ways.

It is not what we think
that really matters
amid the scold of dictates.

A problem of wanting
what we cannot have
among ordinary things.

Knowing too many others
proven so much luckier
never paying heavy tolls.

Would be quite different
if we had reached so far
and wide as sky high.

Blame that comes
for trying to materialize
imagined from thin air.

A part of the mind
being forever there
in never free to know.

The other part of it all
kept busied toiling
at consumption of time.

There is not but torn
by perpetual distraction
knows no bounds.

----------------------

171022A
-----------

It continually slips away
through butter fingers
no way to hold on
to short lengths made
of disquieted and discontented
threads of severing off
those same dead patterns.

The sort of emptied breach
no one steps into
haunted by a continuum flood
carries what we do not
want any more of away
into the drowning pools
hiding the deep of feelings.

Nothing from above
except rains from skies
screams looking down
at not much more
than mud on shoes
and all the scraping by
comes with its loneliness.

The circus of run away
where we try to blend in
attempted disappearances
into crowds of clowns
contorted twists tied
balloons that convey
thoughts above our heads.

We could become villains
to comic book heroes
finding all the other parts
were already filled
but we walk away
looking for simpler bits
in some other's lesser game.

No one we could like to
really wants to
come out and play
so we put our faces away
along with the costumes
hanging in our closets
to maybe another day.

We never meant it
to become that way
but command was too cruel
and control was too tight
until we popped
the way a cork pops
out of a tight glass gun.

Hopeful of not much more
than fantasies lived through
before a final expiration
code hidden somewhere
in or on our packages
rather than thrown out again
before our time.

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