BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

More Poems! 2 of 4 ...

So many people that I know from L.J. are going through financial crap these days. I guess it would be creepy to list who has beeing going through what which has resonated with my own struggles, but there are those who, with perfectly good resumes, can't get a decent job, others who are valiently striving to live by their art, who are being swatted down by the Mundane Machine, others who just can't get a toehold on that first rung out of economic chaos. All of these folks are intelligent, talented people. None can catch a break. Why? Because the machine is made that way. The mundane world is a huge web of snares and limits (like those dystopian visions where the bright are dulled, the fleet are hobbled, the strong are drained) created by the sleeping mass for the explicit purpose of smothering the bright, the creative, the Gurdjieffian awake. We are anathema unto it, and it to us. A conversation has been floating over in ana's site about the possibility of getting some communal thing going somewhere ... but as somebody already has pointed out, you can't get far enough away from The World to be able to avoid it bitch-slapping you because it can. Bleh. Well, here's a poem sort of on this subject ... taste the bile!

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                    SICK POOL OF DECEIT

                    so deep the descent,
                    so relentless the pace,
                    we can not stand
                    against the blast,
                    we can not survive
                    this vile surprise attack;
                    all our resources frozen,
                    all our options dropped

                    nothing remains
                    for us to exist,
                    all pathways are blasted,
                    all shelters destroyed;
                    they scorch the earth
                    and poison the well,
                    igniting the air
                    so we burn with our screams

                    damned race, damned world,
                    cowardly bastards,
                    sick pool of deceit,
                    your hatred for us
                    is without any bound
                    so threatened by those
                    who'd uncover the lies
                    and open your eyes

                    I am so battered,
                    so bloodied, so torn
                    from decades of battle,
                    ages of strife,
                    how could I know
                    you were lying in wait
                    with a doomsday attack
                    to eradicate me?

                    nothing is left
                    except for my death;
                    you sleeping monstrosity,
                    I hope that you reap
                    full course of my anger,
                    full force of my rage,
                    be they physically sent
                    or from beyond the grave

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

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