Poems: 290321 - March 29th, 2021

[Robert Morpheal]

260321A

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Going forward 

with falling back 

wish we could 

go round again. 

Turn of a wheel

that tears apart 

what we were 

from could not be. 

What is this 

and what are we 

in the emptiness 

of all our choosing. 

The lonely fight 

that must be fought

fights the invisible

until we die from it.

Mere ghosts 

of any chance 

they took away 

to prove they could. 

After that it matters

that it does not matter

to anyone anymore 

but no more than that. 

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

260321B

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The Sun extorts 

green from the earth 

following the rain

fallen into luscious. 

It washed out 

all the stray colours 

hung from the names

of bottled up soldiers.  

I did the forbidden

looking for someone 

everywhere I went

but not knowing anyone.  

Parties and faces 

have faded out 

along with grade school

sticks and stones. 

There is no purpose 

there is no golden mean  

common is boring 

and silence is over rated. 

If we really could 

cut away cliche chains 

made to bind us 

to no more than dreams. 

They talked of you 

in meaningless terms 

creating illusions

of past touches future. 

They are archaeologists 

picking at bits of dirt 

caught among the fossils

of convoluted brain. 

They said I was rock solid

as an excuse 

for the hammer and chisel

chiselling it all away. 

We never touched 

and it is always too late 

being whatever is left

after the rip cord fails. 

The choice of colour 

never really mattered 

when nothing opened up 

hooked on a question mark. 

It is make believe talk

filling up story time 

white rabbit skins

stroking childish ears. 

Our pelts being traded 

and yours worth something 

while mine was whipped 

into worthless. 

A cut away view 

of all the inside workings 

of ritual taxonomies 

classifying perpetual loss. 

We wanted to leave

something so unpleasant 

but you never called 

and you never wrote. 

The word always given

you had better options

but no one ever knows

what that really means. 

I needed to find cures

for all of my curiosity 

because it makes no difference

what becomes of us. 

We were insignificant 

and I had forgotten 

the entire matter 

in the details following. 

-----------------------------  

260321C

------------  

If you shoot yourself 

in the foot 

you can be someone 

but sometimes 

there are other ways 

if you are lucky 

and chance a blessing. 

End at limping along 

where it is all nothing 

other than charity

poking at your soul 

until you cannot help 

but bite the hand 

that feeds you. 

Should eat something 

in the realization 

appetites are confused 

by what is near

and what is far away

from any immediate 

points of view.

Something being left

on the doorstep 

brings a sense of purpose 

under its wraps 

and in the severity 

of the instructions 

inside a package. 

That is how far we go

but no further 

on this or any day 

imagining flowers grieving 

what becomes of us 

midst of preparations 

endlessly made. 

Prettied up the room

as if it were a future 

where you are comfortable

with the arrangements 

among things that matter 

dusting other finger prints

from the surfaces. 

It has been a long time 

and it makes me afraid

of forever 

no matter how it appears

in various disguises 

because it always takes

without really giving. 

-------------------------- 

260321D

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

Searching the edges 

of the island 

where thoughts dwell

stranded and distant 

from regular shipping lanes

and tourist traffic. 

Some believing 

the whole world is 

only shipping lanes

and tourist traffic 

addictive as junk

in the veins of junkies. 

The storms they sent 

maintained desolation 

mostly barren 

and half truths 

cobbled together 

as chanced salvages. 

There is no shelter 

from the storm 

no matter where 

you chance to hide 

from its ravaging 

caverns of mind. 

Nothing much

beyond sparse episodes 

of whatever it was

got washed up 

onto shorelines 

of broken off dialogues. 

No one really believed

any of the pitches 

no matter where 

they chanced to land 

but that too is a style 

in contemporary humour. 

In any case

there were outcomes

that were never good 

when it all boiled down

to the same competition

over something else. 

A  sea of mermaids

all turning away 

to different desires 

preferring men 

fallen overboard 

from ships of state. 

No one stops here

along routines 

in growing fear 

of coming away

from firm moorings

passed off as happiness. 

The last party 

was a long time ago 

and everything happened

to shorten guest lists 

down to nothing except

conflicts of interest. 

Crash dived 

into the deep blues 

infinite pain 

of the extreme lonely

but not lonely 

for the likes of you. 

Pick and choose 

would be better 

but it only works 

for the chosen 

who don't ever call

your number. 

------------------------ 

290321A

------------ 

Waited too long 

but never waited 

long enough 

and never got to live

in between 

the one side 

closing in 

on the other.

It takes forever 

then some more 

bitter exchanges

traded away 

in back and forth 

never mounting 

near to enough

to being anything. 

Crammed tight  

careful watch 

spaces of never

mind the pressure 

placed fools

under the mighty 

comes out squeezed

to nothing. 

Revolting mix

into digital canals 

mutating vibrato 

of social decay 

goes eternal smiles 

pasted on empty

promissory notes  

dreaming privacy. 

Chilled feelings 

sweating it out 

in the drench 

morbidity toned 

cull of herd 

never a chance 

at the long 

and short of it.

Sounds of power 

tools carving away

pieces of sunlight 

to be boxed 

and sold off 

in shadowy places 

out of plain sight 

past blind corners. 

Mad dash 

race around 

the cracked landscape 

shatter pot craze 

vessels of passage 

endlessly repeating 

jerk dance 

routine moves. 

Mass purge 

along the line 

stretched to snap 

push me 

and pull you 

to breaking stride

with the chatter 

of executioners. 

Nothing came near

other than the dead

by their own hand

or by marriage 

partings of veils 

osculum est mortis

of the possessed 

and the incestuous. 

Ghouls lurk

threatening to peel 

everything away

down to whitening 

fundamentals 

of bared bone 

sucked marrow 

from love lives. 

Gather our fears 

into bulging sacks 

to drag around 

the stations 

of abandonment 

in hopes of rebuilding 

something personal 

but time grows short. 

We cannot win back

that or any other 

vision of “Jerusalem”

in all the dying to

and the dying from 

reruns of near death

simulated experiences

approaching reality. 

There are doors 

opening and closing 

at the mouths of ovens

condemning all flesh

as no more

than its corruption 

making ashen winged 

legions of angels.

All I had wanted 

was the sort of love 

dwells as passions

near to beauty

while the skin remains

a crude instrument 

played softly 

in dark places. 

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Yes, they are very noir. As a poet I keep trying to kill the lie in my voice, but it becomes a constant battle. The battle is so easily thwarted by the typical human desire to be "popular" rather than honest in terms of one's words.  The deeply inculcated fear being in everyone that says so repeatedly that we will never get whatever it is we really want, if we kill the lie in our voices. It takes immense, no doubt foolish, courage to keep killing that lie.