Poems: 210521 - May 21st, 2021

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Robert Morpheal

May 22, 2021, 10:45:44 AM5/22/21

Was looking forward
to the warm season
but now
not really sure.

Not really sure
about anything
and much of that
was always uncertain.

Always more
of the ice queens
on the dark side
of anyone's thaw.

I have no interest
in the ice kings
but they are out there

Someone is plotting
your get away
to some of the same
boring destinations.

No one really melts
to anything anymore
but some still talk
about melting.

Some are stood up
and some are
simply not held
in good standing.

No one really wants
to be held anymore
most still trying
to make bail.

No one holds on
the way they used to
to anything
that we could afford.

The fall out drifts
the same old way
as cloudy concentrate
into any other subject.

It gets all mixed up
into rumours
streaming chemtrail
and other similar stuff.

Something more
to argue about
so as to create a distaste
for not being alone.

It doesn't get better
than it used to be
and that wasn't
very good.

Multitudes trade
what they have got
for whatever they are
and supposed to have.

Same old square dance
magazines in motion
with same old callers
calling the new shots.

Swallow it down
as another little dose
of devil may care
and piss on it humour.

The centrefolds
of how we all fall down
into simply wrong
colour schemes.

We lost the right
to really believe
in anything much more
than seasonal sales.

We could outfit
another expedition
up into a crammed attic
of last year's styles.

That is what they offer
to each and every
certain to be broken
porcelain heart.

We can drop ourselves
before being dropped
then buy something
as a consolation.



Philosophical whitewash
painted over
those ugly cosmic fences.

Tom and Huck
want to fly
on brushes with death.

Cover over
whatever shows through
might be anyone's truth.

There are traces
of everything you lost
\carved into your eyes.

Initials of someone
whose face you forgot
and whose name
never came up again.

Nothing much more
than superficial personals
hiding common cravings.

You don't really get
anything further than that
past the funny papers.

There isn't much
and there is less all the time
about the way it goes.

Dreaming it up
at the far out end
of the never was.

It seems more real
but that is exactly what
makes it so phony.

The lure of the surreal
was never anything
to take too personally.

There is more truth
in those little psychodramas
falling into bad company.

Doing the two step
into doubled over
at the fence and fold.

The sheep all have grins
painted on them
using spray paint stencils.

Banksy is so big now
that he can paint faces
onto entire crowds.

Every last one of them
almost the same
except for the angle.

Everything is spray
from a different angle
when it comes to belief.

It feels like someone
was busy rearranging
all of our secrets.

No real point left
trying to keep any
from the disinterested.

No one is interested
in anything anymore
but locks changed on doors.

No one responded
and everyone claimed
something better to do.

Mostly secretly terrified
of being seen out
with any sort of controversy.

Doing the same
illuminations of nothing
along the same margins.

We read new things
that meant something
long ago.



There are words
we don't use anymore
because they have changed
into being too difficult.

They are something worse
then the people
who have changed
into being too difficult.

Putting it into words
has become more difficult
in the ever more difficult
use of difficult languages.

We ease the words out
from our vocabularies
before they arouse
any more problems.

They hang on the tongue
in a predatory manner
of beasts hanging on
to squirming prey.

Once innocent words
have been discovered
as being highly predatory
and are being black listed.

We try to shake them off
without uttering
the tiniest little sound
that they might make.

Someone might hear
that sound
and then there would be
big trouble.

Such words travel
in stray packs
looking for victims
to bring down.

They consume
entire lives
and leave behind
the empty cores.

Feral words
we don't use anymore
because of something
they will eat up.



We no longer know
where or how
to look.

We are the bad luck
broken mirror
shattered pieces.

The pieces of us
once looked in on
that once looked good.

What colour
is your mirror
staring at yourself.

Hazed over
and sharp edged
it all reflects.

We don't look
the way we did
on any surface.

The beam of light
we projected
is fractured.

White streamers
into the glare
of a blackout.

Trying to reach
something to celebrate
in a heat of candles.

We don't see
anyone or anything
that we expected.

Blame for that
falls on the light
having changed.

Names are semaphore
blinked out
onto empty oceans.

Maybe someone
will walk out
of a lightless void.

We could ask
for something like that
from traditional menus.

There is that persistence
of popular desires
for illusions of salvation.

Part of the cliches
that bulk up
most of entertainment.

No taste for it
we flicker threats
about going out.

Signal lanterns
sending the flash
of wrong signals.

Easily startled
by what is now wrong
that used to be right.

Closed eyes
in morning rituals
afraid to look out.

We are the cuts
others made
slashing at the dark.

Not one of them
ever got through
that much darkness.

We tried so hard
to open something
up to the light.

The light
never came in
to any such opening.

Hiding in the dark
we become afraid
of looking again.



Maybe it is too late
to do anything
more than dream
the unwelcome dreams
about the nothings
that it was never about.

I am only an illusion
constructed from a lack
of any real concerns
other than delivery receipts
for the packages
that get sent back.

Forget the approvals
and drop the polite nods
because it all comes down
to curious monkeys
making certain
nothing much comes of it.

You were the crowd
that habitually ruined
every little chance
that you could ever get
while spoiling it
for someone else.

It does not get better
but the fears are worse
and if we are clever
we can send away
for a little bit of relief
pretending to be a cure.

Wipe away something
as to the age spots
that persistently damn us
to having less and less
of anything interesting
while being phased out.

It could be sudden death
in play off final rounds
or we could linger
on a tailgate of a life
having been locked out
of the after parties.

It isn't really anything
that we came for
but they took that too
leaving the doodled pages
of meaningless reviews.



Could scrub it all
and even in a forever
it never would
ever come clean.

Needs to be thrown
into the far away
long haul
comes to trashed.

That might compensate
for the intervening lack
currently passing
as appearances.

Spruce it up
with anything
that offers no sense
of any attachment.

We must be
very scrupulous
in regard
to polishing off.

The arrangements
declared all wrong
because they fill
rather than empty.

There are listings
of things to die from
including yourself
in unguarded moments.

It is always said
that you do not need
anything you know
that you really love.

There is a lot
that you can get
and get to know
but cannot care about.

No easy way out
because you missed that
train as it was leaving
that long ago station.

Your ticket no good
for any destination
you tried to trade it
for something new.

You lost on it
the way you always do
in the all about being
wrong place and time.


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