Poems: 171022 - October 17th, 2022

011022A
----------- 

We are the scarred up
to be thrown away
carrying our scars inside
these bags that hide them
from a perfect disgust. 

The damaged ones 
too battered and torn 
for making presentations
in markets of flesh sack 
gnaws on bone. 

Ideals of youth 
a vain apologetic 
covering extravagant 
beauty and lust 
cleaves to and apart. 

An ocean waves its own
longings to and fro 
forced  into synchronous 
stutters of brutal rhythm 
simulated sex.

If that is innocence
youth is innocent 
of its criminal being 
pursuits and passions
forge of idols from desires. 

How we became  
being no one's business 
but it begins in childhood 
as does every failure 
suffering multiple tries. 

Bones of  I-Ching 
where truth makes claim 
splitting heated crack 
baked brittle from fragile
crucible toss of pipes. 

Those winds of fray 
tearing asunder sounds
behind walls and fences
hiding desolate stretches
cultivated with pastime. 

We are the bones 
thrown into furnaces 
made extract of finality 
an a-priori disintegration 
worming ruined cores. 

Hacked apart 
falsified reasoning
the dirge litany 
corrodes and wears out
those time lines. 

Time the reapers 
stalking displaced ash
cannot be something
given recognition makes
all objects of desire. 

Legacies of idylls 
sucked out at length
of ancient marrow bone
screaming mind ideas 
from desperate invalids. 

We line up outside 
denied place within
refinements' birthing wombs  
where some espoused
that more precious culture. 

The iconic problems 
where idols grow precedent
to love of any made 
ideals as hard things 
into hard mould muscles. 

Pounded into shapes 
the way we beat dough
into loaves baked bread 
coated fat and sweat 
bitten at and severed off. 

Cruellest of creatures 
feels nothing at rising 
from ashen squat relic
purified amalgams 
melding cold with fury. 

Persisting bold
at the hunt for signs 
soft warm bits
tried to escape
from the feeding frenzy. 

Whole worlds to crumbs
swallowed moments 
leaving luminous red 
shifted blood spatter
on disintegrated sands. 

A universe itself 
entirely monumental 
to its own passing 
fancied and suggested
sugar coated meanings. 

We never understood 
futility of crystallized 
salts of a Dead Sea 
existence in deep eyes 
harbouring fatale. 

A cargo of dreams 
loaded up and sets sail 
already wrecked 
by when of discovery 
under guns of ambition. 

We are not the ones 
claiming flawless
perfect and immaculate 
freed from sins and stains
without worn or broken. 

The future a myth 
remaining well out 
beyond any such reach 
but we keep grasping 
and clutching. 

Parted experiences 
include various functions 
more gladly discarded 
facsimiles of renovation 
gutted out and rebuilt.

From the ground up 
digging empty plots
sake of rigid organs
formed concrete and steel
spiked prominences. 

We are pushed down 
from where we dreamt 
stairways opening 
impossible heights
of glimpsed sacrifices. 

It rolls down 
bruises of stairs 
an endless succession 
left behind at each step
what gave life. 

Impaled on stakes
imposing firm beliefs 
everything tries 
for that better future 
that is always overcome. 

Sounds are emanating 
deep end  
at the slaughterhouse 
a muttering chaos 
of extreme unctions. 

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

121022A
------------ 

If sounds of words stumble
it does not matter 
what they really say. 

We slash them down
where they are stretched
full out along the line. 

A writer must be as merciless
as a good gardener 
in the weeding and trimming. 

The pull out 
is always more important 
than the push in. 

Defiant of gravity 
because of everything good
going up not down. 

Acquiring that sex 
that is a sexless sex 
defined in a syllabus. 

Dissemination spurts 
from ivory tower 
phallic outbursts. 

It is the idea 
rather than the act 
comes springing out of. 

Nothing is becoming 
being out of nothing 
vibrating the string. 

Making tight the cord
that binds us 
to simulated life. 

It always elevates 
to a rarefied condition 
excising soul breath. 

Out of mind theories
pretense embodies 
that whole universe. 

Where love is 
only a plea bargain 
sort of excuse. 

-----------------
 
121022B
-----------

Feeling as on edge restless
as that cat on a hot tin roof 
being left out of the cool. 

The cool was exorcised 
and the places it hid out 
all closed tight. 

Some jealous musician 
blew the note 
bringing it all down. 

Now the only true tones 
that ever get played 
are arguments about money. 

Trumpet sounded Jericho
fresh paint walls 
heaved sighs made history. 

Rubble that remains 
always knows 
what no one will say. 

No one works that hard 
to put pieces together 
except students of history. 

Progress is a jerk 
transports fast food between
bank heist get aways. 

Pure gold and platinum 
the mass market rage 
gets axe man paid. 

Choppity chop chop
everything getting chopped
the way it comes down. 

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

141022A
------------ 

Sanity is not of this world
but only the rising cost 
of margarine.

A creeping chaos
spreads across a yellowed
blossoming land.  

Inventing printing presses 
preserved the silly things 
people commonly uttered. 

Repetition being repeated 
avoidant of the blur 
that is common speech. 

Ways they used to make
first and last impressions 
on each other's thin skins. 

Keep to the word
that gets coined 
reward and retribution. 

Language is a threat 
even if the level varies 
and very little being said. 

Deep inked imprints 
illustrating parchment whimsy 
to pixel point moments. 

Illustrated manuscript 
catalogues mental aberrations 
studies of dark lore. 

Contemporary street scenes
in diluted deluded context 
pin pricks to a new virginity. 

The new sacre bleu 
inks in portable gods 
all lacking cathedrals. 

Betty Boop and Wilbur 
make ex-cathedra statements 
next to a hot apocalypse. 

Those who “get it” 
feeling compelled to say
no more than “so what”. 

The Sun may shine 
or may not for specimens 
kept behind glass. 

They fade gradually 
embrittled by light 
and a tense atmosphere. 

The old days gone down
to the last gold watch 
given to lifelong prisoners. 

No parole officers 
available to supervise 
early release into emptied. 

Only sting and kick 
onto blackened streets 
dragging long chains. 

The length of a chain 
becoming the measure 
first and last links. 

Always ends as it began
gathering living and dead 
networks of ghosts.

Anchors all torn away 
connecting broken crowns
made no one and nothing. 

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

171022A
----------- 

Parts that are missing 
make for a stripped stem 
without any flowers. 

If only we could 
be everything completely
sufficient in solitude. 

What we miss out on 
we must never mention 
to avoid typical argument. 

It only seeks to stuff 
the hollows and spaces 
in the most cruel ways. 

It is not what we think 
that really matters 
amid the scold of dictates. 

A problem of wanting 
what we cannot have 
among ordinary things. 

Knowing too many others
proven so much luckier
never paying heavy tolls. 

Would be quite different 
if we had reached so far
and wide as sky high. 

Blame that comes 
for trying to materialize
imagined from thin air. 

A part of the mind 
being forever there 
in never free to know. 

The other part of it all 
kept busied toiling 
at consumption of time. 

There is not but torn 
by perpetual distraction
knows no bounds. 

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

171022A
----------- 

It continually slips away 
through butter fingers 
no way to hold on 
to short lengths made 
of disquieted and discontented 
threads of severing off
those same dead patterns. 

The sort of emptied breach 
no one steps into
haunted by a continuum flood
carries what we do not
want any more of away
into the drowning pools 
hiding the deep of feelings. 

Nothing from above 
except rains from skies
screams looking down 
at not much more 
than mud on shoes 
and all the scraping by 
comes with its loneliness. 

The circus of run away 
where we try to blend in 
attempted disappearances 
into crowds of clowns 
contorted twists tied
balloons that convey 
thoughts above our heads. 

We could become villains
to comic book heroes 
finding all the other parts 
were already filled 
but we walk away 
looking for simpler bits
in some other's lesser game. 

No one we could like to
really wants to 
come out and play 
so we put our faces away
along with the costumes 
hanging in our closets 
to maybe another day. 

We never meant it 
to become that way 
but command was too cruel
and control was too tight
until we popped 
the way a cork pops 
out of a tight glass gun. 

Hopeful of not much more
than fantasies lived through
before a final expiration 
code hidden somewhere 
in or on our packages 
rather than thrown out again
before our time. 

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