Discussion:
Poems: 130511 May 13th, 2011
(too old to reply)
Robert Morpheal
2011-05-13 10:22:31 UTC
Permalink
Raw Message
130511A
------------

In the days of our belief
we went to different disillusions
each in our separate ways
as to who, and why, and when.

It is how we never really met
and if we ever really did
it is still the same that it really meant.
We only went our different ways.

We are the love that is never our’s,
the time that is always lost,
trapped between the Easter bonnets,
a ghost of a chance and the Pentecost.

It is always about the ins and outs,
and it is always on everybody’s mind
while finding all those other things to do,
a million ways to pass away their lives.

What decides it all is always something
one does not have and cannot give
that makes all the difference,
in all that finding of losing.

So weary of the crucifixion,
with its no way forward, no way back,
hanging there, no different from an albatross
from the neck of an ancient mariner.

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

130511B
-----------

You know that if your god were a policeman
he would arrest your entire planet
having completely filled all of his notebooks
with the intimate information
that comes from countless ordinary lives
living their ordinary day to day crimes.

I only hear how good you think you really are,
but I cannot remember when was the last time
any good really came of any of that.
I hear everyone is making a killing,
and I know everyone is always fighting
over the very same dime.

It is all about how we are scraping by,

in all those competitions for love.
It becomes too tough to earn any
of any kind that one would really want,
and nothing is ever really free anymore
that can be bought and that can be sold.

I hear that millions are waiting now
for promises, promises, an end of time,
believing that is the only way up,
never wanting to go down again,
thrown from one hole into another
between push of a button, twist of a dial.

You get tired of being in solitary,
but there is no getting out for good behavior.
You move from cell block to cell block,
looking for a way out, by breaking in,
you keep trying to bribe the screws
with favors, smokes, and booze.

You learn to take a beating,
face the music, and get behind,
the eight ball, nose to the grindstone,
always with bells on, always kept worried
about the weather, and your morning coffee,
wondering what is left that can be said.

The morning paper reminds you
of all the things that could have happened,
listing who lived, who died, who is in the headlines,
as you religiously avoid becoming that interesting,
while dreaming of a nowhere special vacation
as if you can really get away.

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

130511C
-----------

The perpetual broken down condition,
that is never really fixed up,
always on the mend, but never mended.
A patchwork thing never patched up.
Life grinds on, in all the processes
that seem to be about nothing more
than the process of becoming worn down.

Saturday night restless,
same as walking on hot coals,
until it is every night restless
eyes cruising all the forbidden territories,
looking for the one you never found.
Trying to compensate yourself
for all the damage that has done.

Electronic hotrods pass your old jalopy
on the electronic highways,
leaving you in the electronic dust.
You contemplate your mortal sins
as to having failed to upgrade,
watching yourself hang,
with no real connections.

You no longer know where they have gone,
and you no longer know how to get there.
You might have been in once,
but you are never really certain where.
Something is missing in the new flesh,
while your cursor dances to a tune,
as it has found all the ends of love.

You want to get out,
but you do not know anywhere to go,
where your luck would be any different
than all those places gone before.
A reflection lost in the shadows,
you wonder why everything you ever get
someone always wants to take away.

You placed your bid
but you lost at the auction,
only getting a broken heart,
as she left you behind,
gone to a fatter wallet,
leaving you an empty room,
where you can store your memories.

Having failed to sell,
you are pulled off the market,
no salvage value in your damaged goods,
they only load you down with baggage,
like a porter in Hell,
all you know are the sorts of flames
that give you no warmth.

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

130511D
------------

You thought you had something to offer,
but it was only your artfulness,
always painting the wrong picture,
as if the future was bright and promising.

The only thing you ever got to live with
are the skeletons in your closet,
until you could feel the same rattling
happening in your own bones.

There is no one on your shrinking horizon
that you would really want to be close to.
You feel as if kept on ice all of the time,
left to putting nails into your own coffin.

You have no stories to tell,
that the censors would really approve of.
You have no way to even the score,
struck out, and stricken off.

It was not you that she really wanted,
and all you found was that you could not want
who told you that they wanted you,
in their vicious circle games.

The world belongs to cons and salesmen
who know the secrets of marketing.
The winds and rain bring their erosion,
and everyone reads it in the lines on your face.

Your name has worn away,
faster than you could scratch it into the dirt,
and no one remembers you
among those you would have loved.

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

130511E
-----------

You were the one I wanted so very much
when I found that I was wounded,
but you abandoned me to the cruelty of men.

They tear everything open,
never letting anything heal from being bled,
probing at my entrails to divine various futures.

I feel as if I am a sacrificial beast,
thrown onto the altar of a blood thirsty god,
sucking marrow from my fractured bones.

I wanted you to predict something different,
than so much more of the same,
proving that romance is not completely dead.

I wanted to know something other
than the dirty sides of dirty wars,
but you deprived me of the soft and gentle.

You always chose a different type of champion,
from a different type of fight,
with your eyes on a different sort of prize.

All you wanted was gold from lead,
and all they ever gave me was lead from gold.
I was never in your winner’s circle.

I don’t know the right questions anymore,
and I don’t have any of the right answers.
I only know that you did not want me.


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

130511F
-----------

I doubt that we ever really know anything
beyond the fact of living under constant threat
of sudden, unexpected, annihilations.

Everything begins to seem as if by arrangement,
but the arrangements are never our’s,
always forcing a unwanted change of plans.

Thrown for another loop,
taken in by another new type of diversion,
there are only dead ends.

Invisible bandages on invisible wounds,
there is only the critical condition,
someone having already pulled the plug.

You keep reaching for life support,
which is always somewhere beyond reach,
and they give you nothing to kill the pain.

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

130511G
------------

Even when one gives up on looking,
one is still looking for,
what one is not looking for.

It is the way it is,
as to the beast inside the man,
starved for every type of difference.

There is no escaping the facts
as to that type of guilt,
despite all the claims as to innocence.

Some pretend at peace,
denying any need
to have, to hold, to conquer.

Some try to cut it off,
with reasoning, or a knife
but it is not that easy to get away.

Some try to find it in themselves,
but that is only the thinnest layer,
that few can ever really hide beneath.

Some become another,
as that might take the place
of making love.

Some wrap themselves up
in flags and recitations,
claiming high ideals.

Some aim at different targets
in their struggles to exist
scoring different hits.

Some look to gods,
some go to the devil,
as if that might set them free.

It is all about the same beast
that dwells inside the man,
that never lets him loose.

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

130511H
------------

I do not know who you are,
and I do not know what you want,
but you always want something
that I cannot ever give.

The same familiar extortion,
making its same familiar demands,
as if a life is merely a kidnap victim
with a price on its head.


Sometimes there is nothing one can do,
beyond rattling one’s own chains,
waiting for the torturer to return,
with some new device.

There is no way to remove the threat
of immanent annihilation,
as to whatever one chances to love,
and it is too difficult to avoid loving.

It is that simple fact that makes one vulnerable,
to becoming the victim,
the same as a whole civilization
that is suddenly wiped out.

You can excavate the ruins of your own existence,
trying vainly to piece together various shards
to determine what really happened,
but history too becomes only another fool’s game.

Human ingenuity knows no limits,
when it comes to inflicting pain,
always stimulated by the fact
that habitual affliction can become pleasure.

This provides another basis
for the necessity of constant change,
so that no one becomes too accustomed
to too much of the same type of suffering.

----------------------------------------------------
adamlynn
2011-05-18 19:01:04 UTC
Permalink
Raw Message
Post by Robert Morpheal
130511A
------------
In the days of our belief
we went to different disillusions
each in our separate ways
as to who, and why, and when.
It is how we never really met
and if we ever really did
it is still the same that it really meant.
We only went our different ways.
We are the love that is never our’s,
the time that is always lost,
trapped between the Easter bonnets,
a ghost of a chance and the Pentecost.
It is always about the ins and outs,
and it is always on everybody’s mind
while finding all those other things to do,
a million ways to pass away their lives.
What decides it all is always something
one does not have and cannot give
that makes all the difference,
in all that finding of losing.
So weary of the crucifixion,
with its no way forward, no way back,
hanging there, no different from an albatross
from the neck of an ancient mariner.
--------------------------------------------
130511B
-----------
You know that if your god were a policeman
he would arrest your entire planet
having completely filled all of his notebooks
with the intimate information
that comes from countless ordinary lives
living their ordinary day to day crimes.
I only hear how good you think you really are,
but I cannot remember when was the last time
any good really came of any of that.
I hear everyone is making a killing,
and I know everyone is always fighting
over the very same dime.
It is all about how we are scraping by,
in all those competitions for love.
It becomes too tough to earn any
of any kind that one would really want,
and nothing is ever really free anymore
that can be bought and that can be sold.
I hear that millions are waiting now
for promises, promises, an end of time,
believing that is the only way up,
never wanting to go down again,
thrown from one hole into another
between push of a button, twist of a dial.
You get tired of being in solitary,
but there is no getting out for good behavior.
You move from cell block to cell block,
looking for a way out, by breaking in,
you keep trying to bribe the screws
with favors, smokes, and booze.
You learn to take a beating,
face the music, and get behind,
the eight ball, nose to the grindstone,
always with bells on, always kept worried
about the weather, and your morning coffee,
wondering what is left that can be said.
The morning paper reminds you
of all the things that could have happened,
listing who lived, who died, who is in the headlines,
as you religiously avoid becoming that interesting,
while dreaming of a nowhere special vacation
as if you can really get away.
----------------------------------
130511C
-----------
The perpetual broken down condition,
that is never really fixed up,
always on the mend, but never mended.
A patchwork thing never patched up.
Life grinds on, in all the processes
that seem to be about nothing more
than the process of becoming worn down.
Saturday night restless,
same as walking on hot coals,
until it is every night restless
eyes cruising all the forbidden territories,
looking for the one you never found.
Trying to compensate yourself
for all the damage that has done.
Electronic hotrods pass your old jalopy
on the electronic highways,
leaving you in the electronic dust.
You contemplate your mortal sins
as to having failed to upgrade,
watching yourself hang,
with no real connections.
You no longer know where they have gone,
and you no longer know how to get there.
You might have been in once,
but you are never really certain where.
Something is missing in the new flesh,
while your cursor dances to a tune,
as it has found all the ends of love.
You want to get out,
but you do not know anywhere to go,
where your luck would be any different
than all those places gone before.
A reflection lost in the shadows,
you wonder why everything you ever get
someone always wants to take away.
You placed your bid
but you lost at the auction,
only getting a broken  heart,
as she left you behind,
gone to a  fatter wallet,
leaving you an empty room,
where you can store your memories.
Having failed to sell,
you are pulled off the market,
no salvage value in your damaged goods,
they only load you down with baggage,
like a porter in Hell,
all you know are the sorts of flames
that give you no warmth.
--------------------------------
130511D
------------
You thought you had something to offer,
but it was only your artfulness,
always painting the wrong picture,
as if the future was bright and promising.
The only thing you ever got to live with
are the skeletons in your closet,
until you could feel the same rattling
happening in your own bones.
There is no one on your shrinking horizon
that you would really want to be close to.
You feel as if kept on ice all of the time,
left to putting nails into your own coffin.
You have no stories to tell,
that the censors would really approve of.
You have no way to even the score,
struck out, and stricken off.
It was not you that she really wanted,
and all you found was that you could not want
who told you that they wanted you,
in their vicious circle games.
The world belongs to cons and salesmen
who know the secrets of marketing.
The winds and rain bring their erosion,
and everyone reads it in the lines on your face.
Your name has worn away,
faster than you could scratch it into the dirt,
and no one remembers you
among those you would have loved.
--------------------------------------------
130511E
-----------
You were the one I wanted so very much
when I found that I was wounded,
but you abandoned me to the cruelty of men.
They tear everything open,
never letting anything heal from being bled,
probing at my entrails to divine various futures.
I feel as if I am a sacrificial beast,
thrown onto the altar of a blood thirsty god,
sucking marrow from my fractured bones.
I wanted you to predict something different,
than so much more of the same,
proving that romance is not completely dead.
I wanted to know something other
than the dirty sides of dirty wars,
but you deprived me of the soft and gentle.
You always chose a different type of champion,
from a different type of fight,
with your eyes on a different sort of prize.
All you wanted was gold from lead,
and all they ever gave me was lead from gold.
I was never in your winner’s circle.
I don’t know the right questions anymore,
and I don’t have any of the right answers.
I only know that you did not want me.
------------------------------------------------
130511F
-----------
I doubt that we ever really know anything
beyond the fact of living under constant threat
of sudden, unexpected, annihilations.
Everything begins to seem as if by arrangement,
but the arrangements are never our’s,
always forcing a unwanted change of plans.
Thrown for another loop,
taken in by another new type of diversion,
there are only dead ends.
Invisible bandages on invisible wounds,
there is only the critical condition,
someone having already pulled the plug.
You keep reaching for life support,
which is always somewhere beyond reach,
and they give you nothing to kill the pain.
--------------------------------------------------
130511G
------------
Even when one gives up on looking,
one is still looking for,
what one is not looking for.
It is the way it is,
as to the beast inside the man,
starved for every type of difference.
There is no escaping the facts
as to that type of guilt,
despite all the claims as to innocence.
Some pretend at peace,
denying any need
to have, to hold, to conquer.
Some try to cut it off,
with reasoning, or a knife
but it is not that easy to get away.
Some try to find it in themselves,
but that is only the thinnest layer,
that few can ever really hide beneath.
Some become another,
as that might take the place
of making love.
Some wrap themselves up
in flags and recitations,
claiming high ideals.
Some aim at different targets
in their struggles to exist
scoring different hits.
Some look to gods,
some go to the devil,
as if that might set them free.
It is all about the same beast
that dwells inside the man,
that never lets him loose.
-----------------------------
130511H
------------
I do not know who you are,
and I do not know what you want,
but you always want something
that I cannot ever give.
The same familiar extortion,
making its same familiar demands,
as if a life is merely a kidnap victim
with a price on its head.
Sometimes there is nothing one can do,
beyond rattling one’s own chains,
waiting for the torturer to return,
with some new device.
There is no way to remove the threat
of immanent annihilation,
as to whatever one chances to love,
and it is too difficult to avoid loving.
It is that simple fact that makes one vulnerable,
to becoming the victim,
the same as a whole civilization
that is suddenly wiped out.
You can excavate the ruins of your own existence,
trying vainly to piece together various shards
to determine what really happened,
but history too becomes only another fool’s game.
Human ingenuity knows no limits,
when it comes to inflicting pain,
always stimulated by the fact
that habitual affliction can become pleasure.
This provides another basis
for the necessity of constant change,
so that no one becomes too accustomed
to too much of the same type of suffering.
----------------------------------------------------
a.

the crucifixion of an albatross
the Pentecost hanging there
Easter lost
and always on everybody’s mind
adamlynn
2011-05-19 06:16:54 UTC
Permalink
Raw Message
Post by Robert Morpheal
130511A
------------
In the days of our belief
we went to different disillusions
each in our separate ways
as to who, and why, and when.
It is how we never really met
and if we ever really did
it is still the same that it really meant.
We only went our different ways.
We are the love that is never our’s,
the time that is always lost,
trapped between the Easter bonnets,
a ghost of a chance and the Pentecost.
It is always about the ins and outs,
and it is always on everybody’s mind
while finding all those other things to do,
a million ways to pass away their lives.
What decides it all is always something
one does not have and cannot give
that makes all the difference,
in all that finding of losing.
So weary of the crucifixion,
with its no way forward, no way back,
hanging there, no different from an albatross
from the neck of an ancient mariner.
--------------------------------------------
130511B
-----------
You know that if your god were a policeman
he would arrest your entire planet
having completely filled all of his notebooks
with the intimate information
that comes from countless ordinary lives
living their ordinary day to day crimes.
I only hear how good you think you really are,
but I cannot remember when was the last time
any good really came of any of that.
I hear everyone is making a killing,
and I know everyone is always fighting
over the very same dime.
It is all about how we are scraping by,
in all those competitions for love.
It becomes too tough to earn any
of any kind that one would really want,
and nothing is ever really free anymore
that can be bought and that can be sold.
I hear that millions are waiting now
for promises, promises, an end of time,
believing that is the only way up,
never wanting to go down again,
thrown from one hole into another
between push of a button, twist of a dial.
You get tired of being in solitary,
but there is no getting out for good behavior.
You move from cell block to cell block,
looking for a way out, by breaking in,
you keep trying to bribe the screws
with favors, smokes, and booze.
You learn to take a beating,
face the music, and get behind,
the eight ball, nose to the grindstone,
always with bells on, always kept worried
about the weather, and your morning coffee,
wondering what is left that can be said.
The morning paper reminds you
of all the things that could have happened,
listing who lived, who died, who is in the headlines,
as you religiously avoid becoming that interesting,
while dreaming of a nowhere special vacation
as if you can really get away.
----------------------------------
130511C
-----------
The perpetual broken down condition,
that is never really fixed up,
always on the mend, but never mended.
A patchwork thing never patched up.
Life grinds on, in all the processes
that seem to be about nothing more
than the process of becoming worn down.
Saturday night restless,
same as walking on hot coals,
until it is every night restless
eyes cruising all the forbidden territories,
looking for the one you never found.
Trying to compensate yourself
for all the damage that has done.
Electronic hotrods pass your old jalopy
on the electronic highways,
leaving you in the electronic dust.
You contemplate your mortal sins
as to having failed to upgrade,
watching yourself hang,
with no real connections.
You no longer know where they have gone,
and you no longer know how to get there.
You might have been in once,
but you are never really certain where.
Something is missing in the new flesh,
while your cursor dances to a tune,
as it has found all the ends of love.
You want to get out,
but you do not know anywhere to go,
where your luck would be any different
than all those places gone before.
A reflection lost in the shadows,
you wonder why everything you ever get
someone always wants to take away.
You placed your bid
but you lost at the auction,
only getting a broken  heart,
as she left you behind,
gone to a  fatter wallet,
leaving you an empty room,
where you can store your memories.
Having failed to sell,
you are pulled off the market,
no salvage value in your damaged goods,
they only load you down with baggage,
like a porter in Hell,
all you know are the sorts of flames
that give you no warmth.
--------------------------------
130511D
------------
You thought you had something to offer,
but it was only your artfulness,
always painting the wrong picture,
as if the future was bright and promising.
The only thing you ever got to live with
are the skeletons in your closet,
until you could feel the same rattling
happening in your own bones.
There is no one on your shrinking horizon
that you would really want to be close to.
You feel as if kept on ice all of the time,
left to putting nails into your own coffin.
You have no stories to tell,
that the censors would really approve of.
You have no way to even the score,
struck out, and stricken off.
It was not you that she really wanted,
and all you found was that you could not want
who told you that they wanted you,
in their vicious circle games.
The world belongs to cons and salesmen
who know the secrets of marketing.
The winds and rain bring their erosion,
and everyone reads it in the lines on your face.
Your name has worn away,
faster than you could scratch it into the dirt,
and no one remembers you
among those you would have loved.
--------------------------------------------
130511E
-----------
You were the one I wanted so very much
when I found that I was wounded,
but you abandoned me to the cruelty of men.
They tear everything open,
never letting anything heal from being bled,
probing at my entrails to divine various futures.
I feel as if I am a sacrificial beast,
thrown onto the altar of a blood thirsty god,
sucking marrow from my fractured bones.
I wanted you to predict something different,
than so much more of the same,
proving that romance is not completely dead.
I wanted to know something other
than the dirty sides of dirty wars,
but you deprived me of the soft and gentle.
You always chose a different type of champion,
from a different type of fight,
with your eyes on a different sort of prize.
All you wanted was gold from lead,
and all they ever gave me was lead from gold.
I was never in your winner’s circle.
I don’t know the right questions anymore,
and I don’t have any of the right answers.
I only know that you did not want me.
------------------------------------------------
130511F
-----------
I doubt that we ever really know anything
beyond the fact of living under constant threat
of sudden, unexpected, annihilations.
Everything begins to seem as if by arrangement,
but the arrangements are never our’s,
always forcing a unwanted change of plans.
Thrown for another loop,
taken in by another new type of diversion,
there are only dead ends.
Invisible bandages on invisible wounds,
there is only the critical condition,
someone having already pulled the plug.
You keep reaching for life support,
which is always somewhere beyond reach,
and they give you nothing to kill the pain.
--------------------------------------------------
130511G
------------
Even when one gives up on looking,
one is still looking for,
what one is not looking for.
It is the way it is,
as to the beast inside the man,
starved for every type of difference.
There is no escaping the facts
as to that type of guilt,
despite all the claims as to innocence.
Some pretend at peace,
denying any need
to have, to hold, to conquer.
Some try to cut it off,
with reasoning, or a knife
but it is not that easy to get away.
Some try to find it in themselves,
but that is only the thinnest layer,
that few can ever really hide beneath.
Some become another,
as that might take the place
of making love.
Some wrap themselves up
in flags and recitations,
claiming high ideals.
Some aim at different targets
in their struggles to exist
scoring different hits.
Some look to gods,
some go to the devil,
as if that might set them free.
It is all about the same beast
that dwells inside the man,
that never lets him loose.
-----------------------------
130511H
------------
I do not know who you are,
and I do not know what you want,
but you always want something
that I cannot ever give.
The same familiar extortion,
making its same familiar demands,
as if a life is merely a kidnap victim
with a price on its head.
Sometimes there is nothing one can do,
beyond rattling one’s own chains,
waiting for the torturer to return,
with some new device.
There is no way to remove the threat
of immanent annihilation,
as to whatever one chances to love,
and it is too difficult to avoid loving.
It is that simple fact that makes one vulnerable,
to becoming the victim,
the same as a whole civilization
that is suddenly wiped out.
You can excavate the ruins of your own existence,
trying vainly to piece together various shards
to determine what really happened,
but history too becomes only another fool’s game.
Human ingenuity knows no limits,
when it comes to inflicting pain,
always stimulated by the fact
that habitual affliction can become pleasure.
This provides another basis
for the necessity of constant change,
so that no one becomes too accustomed
to too much of the same type of suffering.
----------------------------------------------------
the crucifixion of an albatross
the Pentecost hanging there
Easter lost
and always on everybody’s mind
adamlynn
2011-05-19 06:21:01 UTC
Permalink
Raw Message
the crucifixion of an albatross
the Pentecost hanging there
Easter lost
and always on everybody’s mind




http://groups.google.com/group/rec.arts.poems/browse_thread/thread/f2c1b35a482d03e1/1a111c8f38ca751c?lnk=raot#1a111c8f38ca751c
adamlynn
2011-05-26 04:54:53 UTC
Permalink
Raw Message
Post by adamlynn
the crucifixion of an albatross
the Pentecost hanging there
Easter lost
and always on everybody’s mind
http://groups.google.com/group/rec.arts.poems/browse_thread/thread/f2...
The crucifixion of an albatross,
the pentecost hanging there.
Easter. Lost
and always on everybody’s mind.

I do not know who you are:
inflicting the ingenuity
of constant change.
Love, rattling the ruins,

the chains of your pleasure,
suffering the annihilation of history
so that no one becomes new
and too accustomed to loving.
adamlynn
2011-05-26 05:06:31 UTC
Permalink
Raw Message
The crucifixion of an albatross,
the pentecost hanging there.
Easter. Lost
and always on everybody’s mind.

I do not know who you are:
inflicting the ingenuity
of constant change.
Love, rattling the ruins,


the chains of your pleasure,
suffering the annihilation of history
so that no one becomes new
and too accustomed to loving.
Post by adamlynn
http://groups.google.com/group/rec.arts.poems/browse_thread/thread/f2...
adamlynn
2011-05-26 06:11:34 UTC
Permalink
Raw Message
The crucifixion of an albatross,
the pentecost hanging there.
Easter. Lost
and always on everybody’s mind.

I do not know who you are:
inflicting the ingenuity
of constant change.
Love, rattling the ruins,


the chains of your pleasure,
suffering the annihilation of history
so that no one becomes new
and too accustomed to loving.



Some, starved with reasoning, target innocence.
Some conquer only the thinnest layer of themselves.
Some pretend, to gods, to cut it off.
Some try making love to the devil, claiming high ideals.
Some give up on looking and exist in flags.
Some hide beneath their struggles, denying peace.
Some loose the beast that dwells inside of guilt.
Some find it in a knife, a need, there is no escaping.
Some wrap themselves, in facts but it’s not that easy.
adamlynn
2011-05-26 06:23:26 UTC
Permalink
Raw Message
The crucifixion of an albatross,
the pentecost hanging there.
Easter. Lost
and always on everybody’s mind.

I do not know who you are:
inflicting the ingenuity
of constant change.
Love, rattling the ruins,

the chains of your pleasure,
suffering the annihilation of history
so that no one becomes new
and too accustomed to loving.


*******************************************


Some, starved with reasoning, target innocence.
Some conquer only the thinnest layer of themselves.
Some pretend, to gods, to cut it off.
Some try making love to the devil, claiming high ideals.
Some give up on looking and exist in flags.
Some hide beneath their struggles, denying peace.
Some loose the beast that dwells inside of guilt.
Some find it in a knife, a need, there is no escaping.
Some wrap themselves in facts, but it’s not that easy.
adamlynn
2011-05-26 06:45:10 UTC
Permalink
Raw Message
The crucifixion of an albatross,
the pentecost hanging there.
Easter. Lost
and always on everybody’s mind.


I do not know who you are:
inflicting the ingenuity
of constant change.
Love, rattling the ruins,


the chains of your pleasure,
suffering the annihilation of history
so that no one becomes new
and too accustomed to loving.


*******************************************


Some, starved with reasoning, target innocence.
Some conquer only the thinnest layer of themselves.
Some pretend, to gods, to cut it off.
Some try making love to the devil, claiming high ideals.
Some give up on looking and exist in flags.
Some hide beneath their struggles, denying peace.
Some loose the beast that dwells inside of guilt.
Some find it in a knife, a need, there is no escaping.
Some wrap themselves in facts, but it’s not that easy.


*******************************************


Qui diceris Paraclitus,
altissimi donum Dei,
fons vivus, ignis, caritas
et spiritalis unctio.
adamlynn
2011-05-27 04:34:57 UTC
Permalink
Raw Message
The crucifixion of an albatross,
the pentecost hanging there.
Easter. Lost
and always on everybody’s mind.

I do not know who you are:
inflicting the ingenuity
of constant change.
Love, rattling the ruins,

the chains of your pleasure,
suffering the annihilation of history
so that no one becomes new
and too accustomed to loving.


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


Some, starved with reasoning, target innocence.
Some conquer only the thinnest layer of themselves.
Some pretend, to gods, to cut it off.
Some try making love to the devil, claiming high ideals.
Some give up on looking and exist in flags.
Some hide beneath their struggles, denying peace.
Some loose the beast that dwells inside of guilt.
Some find it in a knife, a need, there is no escaping.
Some wrap themselves in facts, but it’s not that easy.


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


Qui diceris Paraclitus,
altissimi donum Dei,
fons vivus, ignis, caritas
et spiritalis unctio.


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


The morning paper promises the end of time,
but I can’t remember living.

God gets tired of dreaming about ordinary lives
and listening to what is left of the weather.

Breaking in--killing--religiously--cell by cell,
block by solitary block.

Wondering what is left, who lived, who died.
The music is scraping by: always beating.

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