Poems: 060821 - August 6th, 2021

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Robert Morpheal

Aug 6, 2021, 1:36:49 PM8/6/21

Connectivity is sham
tangle web
connections unmade
and unmakeable
at frayed loose ends
coming apart
into too difficult times.

Nothing is perfect
and what you could do
was never enough
to fill a leaky cup
or mend owned wounds
leaving stigmata
shorted any sainthood.

Missing out
for wrong reasons
and any hard tries
at something better
craving a listing
in someone's wants
but looking foolish
at the regular drop.

Those drop and bounce
run around courses
being dread routines
between walked out
for strange reasons
and cover up realities
under a usual whitewash.

White as a ghost dancer
in a reign of terror
cause of growth fears
lurks bill collector
and fail dating sites
between wade through
of worse advice.

We were urged
to await miracles
believing good things
to those who stand
forever waiting
eventual realization
it all passed them by.

Quiet says the sign
on entering
another laughter zone
where the passing leave
the remaining choked
with laughter dust
rising around that stop.

Stopped midway
so many times to ever
and begin at over
to add up to something
that they care about
after the inspection
reveals too many flaws.

That unpleasant gotcha
and then you wake up
long after too late
left nothing
but stabbing pains
covered over
with laughter dust.

How to get boxed in
for a last time
tight under a lid
which never comes off
nailed down tight
onto nothing but you
and four more walls.

What you don't know
what you can't say
comes down on you
a hostile takeover
tearing out the love
you once felt
caught in your throat.

There is nowhere now
that you can think of
inviting the going
and no one is there
even if you went
into a crowded space
between random cruelty.

The infinite possibilities
were the same nothing
coming to nothing
but ask forever why
that pound at incessant
echoing the silence
under hob nail boots.

The ghost march
bones getting covered
with ancestral blood
not being anything
you really wanted
while trying to interpret
the runes of denial.

If any once had
those have long fled
soul search places
to more comfortable
and better designed
suitably provisioned
for making impressions.

Not quite dead yet
but it doesn't take much
to be turned over
left face up
covered with laughter dust
at tried to find
those better times.



Sometimes it isn't words
but only wild sounds
howling at stray moons.

Beams of sanity
cutting their laser light
across eyeball slices.

What you chance to see
is never what you get
but it makes you wanting.

Wanting what they tell you
you do not really want
and would not like.

Arguments notwithstanding
you want some
but you never get any.

Someone else has it all
and whatever it is
makes a peep show from it.

It isn't on billboards
or in any of the pop up ads
cluttering up your vision.

It is the exceptions
that stimulate the appetites
of your slaughtered tastes.

The completely bored mind
wanting for everything
that it cannot ever find.

The rest of it goes
in the junk folder
marked quick deletion.

You become afraid
that they have marked you
for deletion.

Threats have been uttered
but there is no proof
that anyone uttered them.

There is so very much
that you want to try
before you buy it.

Samples made you crave
products not offered
and nothing ever settles.

Cultural indigestion
heaves its sick feelings
in the dirty insides.

The surface scrubbed
rubbing off bad words
in typical wrong ways.

You sometimes watch
others play the games
they won't let you play

That makes you special
in all those ways
you never wanted to be.

You wanted to be special
to someone
but not just anyone.

Erasing your footsteps
you wish you could go
the other way.

Maybe it was there
you would find whatever
wasn't anywhere for you.

They drummed at you
that something was for you
but you never got any.



Following fence lines
with nowhere to go
past gated and closed
locked countryside
parcelled and divided.

A road trip
among the visual beauty
of these dismal lands
between repeat exclamations
of no stopping.

There was a time
when you could stop
and stops were taken
entirely for granted
as what everyone does.

Past private lanes
that are rumoured
other world portals
into the unknown
but try to imagine.

Someone is selling off
heaps of old invites
to collectors of nostalgia
along with party favours
and empty chocolate boxes.

Past the line up
outside the liquor store
right in the middle
of the small minded
one radio station town.

A crowded little park
monkey cage
litter of bad habits
brought outside
for the weather change.

Roadside picnic area
latrine stench drift
overflowing garbage cans
with barbecue smoke
choking crowded tables.

These are lonely times
in lonelier places
where enemies advance
always victorious
against our resistance.

There are observers
counting the casualties
that heard happy voices
where there were none
celebrating anything.

Try another turn
down a side road
in the vain hope
it will change your luck
but it never does
before it dead ends.



When we were in the desert
we came to wells
that were all poisoned.

We pulled up bucket fulls
of ancient history
along with some hymnals.

A skeletal organist
played Red Army tunes
in our collective hallucinations.

The sands of time
sought to cover over everything
with relentless argument.

Individual sand grains
needing to be strung as beads
on superstring filaments.

This was exacting work
as to placements and numbers
forming coded myths.

A universe can be made
from such creative expulsions
of petrified phlegm and venom.

The toxic dust then ingested
created a false sense
of intense well being.

Fossilized remains appeared
revealing past lunch meetings
encased in strata of concrete.

Nothing was ever sustained
in those gatherings of grit
wearing away soft tissue.

Skinned knees of childhood
joining up with elbows
reminiscent of holy days.

There was a playground
no one plays in anymore
where the gods hang out.

We had to learn to climb up
long evolutionary ladders
while pushing others off.

It was all going one at a time
and take nothing with you
in the efforts to hold on.

Fall off rates being marked
by the decaying particles
worn as native jewellery.

It was all about lost tribes
and forgotten mating rituals
emptying your living room.

A handful of insects dropped
out of a vending machine
after it swallowed a quarter.

They all had human faces
and you could collect
a complete set of expressions.

They dissolved slowly
after forming images
of the immanent future.

Sometimes images remained
that you could not wash off
from your thin skin.

You would carry them
until the time came
for them to go free.

They would leave you
a new feeling of emptiness
that you could never fill.


And so it goes.... not even beginning to note all of the awful things that we actually chance to have been given to notice. After all it would do no good at all, even if we did say so.
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