Poems: 110515 - May 11th, 2015
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Robert Morpheal
2015-05-12 14:10:39 UTC
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Penniless miseries,
repeating tales of woe.
Empty pockets
mean it is always time to go.

Can't buy a way,
with any hook, line, or sinker.
Fool's gold in the mine,
leaves you digging up contention.

They say it all goes to good in the end
even when it is always broke.
Supposed to make it all grow,
on the rotting lies of clowns.

Waste away the days,
where nothing really makes a dime
Beaten out by the competition
that established lives of crime.

It is what you never could get
that always tends to matter.
It is what you never had
that they always claim to want.

Never really much better,
than chasing the crumbs that they drop.
They would still hang you from a stick,
tied by your toes and your thumbs.



Dreading burial
Passing by the tomb
of the unknown
nothing, got nowhere.

The pain fluctuates,
reminding of change
being the only constant.
Everything breaks up,
and gets carried out.

Rude intrusions
collected as a series
of untoward ways.
The walls are decorated
with strange hieroglyphs.

The sun tears at and rends
the beaten fabric,
as it is stretched to torn.
Thin reeds splinter,
fractured, in the wind.



You feel as though you are bones,
thrown into the soup pot.
The marrow already sucked out,
and the meat scraped off clean.

That is as clean as it gets,
in a broth of neurons.
The pins in a voodoo doll,
triggering blank reactions.

The blanks fired from pistols
shattering any attempts at calm.
No more music to dance to,
the angels abandon their posts.

Their dirty footprints
are all that they leave behind
after treading on your synapses,
and having made other arrangements.

Everything is overrun,
and the enemy is in at the gate.
They block your access
to anywhere you wanted to go.

A skeleton of naive hopes.
What there is that is left
of having made the mistake
of having been a child.

Something rattles around inside,
as though broken loose,
and coming apart at all the joints,
knowing nothing hangs together.



They want to tear it out of you,
with the dull knives
of their tongues.

Scoop it up with their fingers,
as raw pieces of renditions,
that they have strangled and gutted.

Leaving nothing to be said,
while pushing everything under
the surface of any meaningful contexts.

The feeling of being choked
on straws of explanations,
invariably pulled up short.

They are looking for it
in the hollow caverns of their eyes,
where everything is always lost,

Greedily staring at the carcasses.
Dreams left hanging around
the way prey hangs in abattoirs.



The search for freedom,
that never finds
anything that it is looking for.

Perpetually turning over
grains of sand,
and trying to read the inscriptions.

Sometimes that is all that there is,
that can actually be done,
in an hourglass of lost clues.



Turned around and back,
to the prison of reflections.
That endless gazing at one's self,
as though believing in oracles
that reveal some sort of future.

You feel it in your entrails,
as all that twisting and squirming.
The way snakes twist and squirm,
tangling and untangling themselves
from various types of knotted anxieties.

That is the real story
as to how alphabets came into being.
Various species of snakes
drooling and dripping their darkness,
from a calligrapher's pen.

You read a perpetual map of detours,
divining precise patterns of stagnant motion,
following various clearly defined lines,
punctuated by idling in heavy traffic,
as though waiting at street corners.

That is the same as reading the fissures
in randomly cracked bones
fractured in the heat of any sudden moment,
where everything tends to get broken up,
whether sooner or later.

Whatever you really thought it was,
it definitely isn't anymore.
There are strange prognostications
on the billboard signs,
that no one told you anything about.

Peter J Ross
2015-05-13 15:45:55 UTC
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In alt.poetry on Tue, 12 May 2015 07:10:39 -0700 (PDT), Robert
Post by Robert Morpheal
Penniless miseries,
repeating tales of woe.
Empty pockets
mean it is always time to go.
And yet you're still here.
PJR :-)
... ἐκ γὰρ εὐτυχοῦς
ἥδιστον ἐχθρὸν ἄνδρα δυστυχοῦνθ᾽ ὁρᾶν.
— Euripides