Poems: 270722 - July 27th, 2022

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Robert Morpheal

Jul 28, 2022, 11:57:13 AMJul 28

The body that is broken
into bread and wine
becoming torn flesh
and spilled blood.

Those the measures
that are the measure up
the meting out
and the measure of.

It is about how much
can be squeezed
from the press
after an initial crush.

They cover up
carnage with vows
and silence along trails
of cheap plastic relics.

We long for comforts
never found and feeling
scourged outcasts
turned to embitterment.

Everything is measured
including our passages
arising as mind and time
straining against infinity.

The ugliness that comes
with the little death
replaced by the constant
of continual mortification.

There is nothing else
to depend or rely on
but that one thin thread
keeping the beads in order.

We once believed
there are better lives
for anyone to live in
but everything is evasive.

You cannot catch
what goes that fast
in a mere blink
from a cruel eye.

Dark mirrors that reflect
nothing but their selves
as the distorted wishful
spectres of private fantasy.

Some call it love
but it isn't even service
merely striking off
what is made worthless.

Everything made official
in completely unofficial ways
forges added links
to the weight of chains.

What you thought you had
disappears into heaped
writhing bodies
exchanging various parts.

Vast bloats of intense pink
fleshed pigs squealing
their pleasure centres
pleasuring an amorphous mass.

Horror of flesh arising
melts into lurid
phantasms and shapes
stimulating voyeur audiences.

Audiences invoked
by a famous magician
to shift all the blame
from absence to a crowd.

Usually the story ends
at that destined moment
repeated in a million lives
a million million times.

Crowds tire quickly
regardless of the spectacle
and at that very moment
are most likely to condemn.

Begins with a split of atoms
into regulated processes
constituting a steady decay
into graveyard gossip.

The crowded exit
leading out of the theatre
while anatomy lessons
continue upon the stage.

Exits dense with crowds
secret with desires
for some illicit touch
as if leaving with someone.

They want to get away
with something more
than the victims they watched
being played out.

It is very hard to get in
after you are out
and some forever stand
as examples to the fact.

Futures collapse
as detonated structures
no longer valued
massive piles of bones.

The traffic snarls
the way tin cans collide
on a conveyor belt
carrying promises and lies.

A worm is laughing
at the complicated preparations
demanding its patience
but knowing it will be fed.

The dust of a thousand years
fills the nostrils
as they try to decipher
the lacunae of its meaning.

In the end nothing
except the flesh
made uglier
and more deformed.
Millennia of pages
to meticulously leaf through
looking for a moment
that isn't wasted time.



The shocked flies
you swatted at
leaving them mangled
lame and limbless.

They crawl for you
in spasm jerk moves
twisted rearranged parts
senselessly contorting.

It becomes a dance
invocation of St. Vitus
wild eyed confusion
between liquid and loaf.

The fly does not care
piss, vinegar or wine
caught up as it is
in a chemical euphoria.

They spill themselves
out into worlds of decay
trying to clean up
various bits of history.

You accuse them
concerning the war
they cannot win
and of breaching the peace.

They reveal nothing
but the simple fact
that they are good soldiers
dying for their cause.

A cause they don't know
and cannot contemplate
frees them completely
to a perfect faith.

One stumbles blindly
in the last vapours
down an emptied bottle
dead drunk to bottom.

It is much the same
in a span of alleyways
where what happens
remains unspeakable.

The same feeling
that we will never get out
from violently pushing
faces against glass.

Each up against our own
and never free of it
going around until
we chance to drop off.

We recall being urged
to having the same faith
that every fly demonstrates
but we fall entirely short.

Not one of us as faithful
as the ordinary fly
yet both feeding the same
off the same death.



Nowhere to go
and we are going there
for the sake of nothing
other than our restlessness.

Whatever we once did
has been made unpopular
so we do what we do
in secret ways and places.

We want to pretend
that everything matters
but the come-ons we get
prove emptied of purpose.

A childish optimism
tells me I might meet you
if I wander around
in public ways and spaces.

The same mistake
twenty five years ago
and years before that
along with ever since.

I can't even meet you
in dispensed portions of dream
due to not having
that much freedom.

It is a ridiculous habit
that I cannot seem to stop
even after the facts
that ended my last belief.

I don't know you
and I assure you
we were never introduced
and we never actually met.

That seems important
so we can avoid recollecting
faded histories of was no more
that losing all significance.

The city is shoddy replays
of hastily repainted scenes
making it difficult
to recognize anything.

I am one of the ghosts
looking in from outside
only to see nothing
I wanted to see.

I was always waiting
for a signal from you
that I could feel certain
was not from the heavens.

I was waiting for a gesture
that I could know to be true
to break a spell of waiting
that is too much forever.



Thrown out
no matter the reason
or the lack of reasons
is thrown away.

The forced out
and the gone away
that won't be back
made thus disposed.

How dispositions change
never for the better
but always with far more
sense of finality.

An identical process
to the discarding
of no longer valued
and of no longer needed.

Things we once thought
felt needed
but someone took the need
leaving everything else.

The shock troops
that dispose and dispossess
lurk around dark corners
emptying it all out.

Nothing ever put back in
where they carve away
at the next victim roast
slicing down to bones.

What is eaten away at
your own vain dreaming
something fixed up
that never really is.

Much more to be learned
from garbage pits
than from sacred objects
in any archaeology of lives.

You always look forward
but your assassin comes
inevitably from behind
playing at shadows.

Those child games
meaning to enthrall you
promised real chance
where there were none.

Your statue of soggy bread
stands faceless in a bog
made up of every version
that chanced for or against.

The story appears noted
in anonymous graffiti
for everyone to own
even if it is mostly untrue.

You will never know
and it makes no difference
if you did or didn't
except to your own soul.

If you could find your soul
where you misplaced it
somewhere between a church
and life's casino.

Perhaps nothing better
and perhaps something worse
but it was never yours
to actually decide.



They all always want
what they do not have
so the imperfect of them
always want for perfection.

They look at the pieces
and they want every piece
that they have not got
in envy of efficient machines.

“It works” they exclaim
jubilant at how it differs
from their own failed parts
seized up and corroded.

They break it off from any
if they can spot the flaw lines
where the materials fall short
from ideal specifications.

Your quality certificate
expired and was rescinded
but you continued to labour
in a belief that someone cares.

They say it is for the best
not to believe such things
as are said or done
by those less than fully able.

The devil into any process
is its crippling weaknesses
where it grinds to a halt
ruining the entire batch.

Broken link in the chain
and a team's only fumble
tagged with rejections
as a bad piece of work.

Strength is from above
as long as it holds you down
to new ways of culling
the weak from the herd.

Wrestlers the foundation
of what passes as truth
about top and bottom
in any battle of wits.

Good ends on top
and evil rests below
remains the standard
as to being raised up.


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