BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

Oh, my GAWD! Not MORE of this CRAP!???

A-yep, a big 10-4 on that, good buddies! I figured that since I had pretty much "cleaned up" my current notebook (in terms of having transcibed the old stuff that was in there), that I might as well finish up what was left (another five poems written over the past six months ... bleh, I miss writing!). These are as follows:

                    IN FEVER DREAMS

                    when the pressure builds
                    and the tension pulls
                    we have no stasis,
                    no central zone;
                    we are frayed,
                    splintered, shredded,
                    broken into bits,
                    ground into the dirt
                    seeking vectors,
                    passing waves
                    within these days
                    that might take us
                    to safer shores,
                    we drift apart
                    and lose our way
                    in ceaseless void
                    the emptiness consumes,
                    its ravenous maw
                    gapes and seeks to seize
                    us in those teeth,
                    the grinding planes
                    of dire oblivion;
                    we are torn
                    limb from limb
                    nightmares empty
                    into day
                    filling every hour's time;
                    leaving us destroyed,
                    beaten, battered,
                    unsure, unset,
                    seeking shelter
                    in fever dreams
                    all our schedules
                    fall apart here,
                    nothing flows
                    one with our intent;
                    the structure's broken
                    and bleeds out blame
                    which clings to us
                    no matter how we wash

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp


                    A BLANK VENEER

                    something slips,
                    broken apart
                    we descend
                    into doom;
                    old darkness folds
                    constraining arms
                    around these days,

                    every move
                    fractures time,
                    no plans sustain,
                    no vector flow
                    point to point,
                    space is twisted
                    inside out

                    all our wounds
                    refuse to heal,
                    we bleed a river
                    flecked with pus;
                    our form decays,
                    our spirit fails,
                    a madness filters
                    through our brain

                    such desperation,
                    such gripping dread;
                    we scurry frantic
                    seeking shade,
                    search for shelter
                    but all is sealed,
                    a blank veneer
                    without relief

                    the hollow zone
                    where once was hope,
                    the empty gouge
                    where tore our heart,
                    aches unending,
                    screams insane;
                    turned into delusion,
                    horrible deceit

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp


                    WITHOUT THAT GUIDANCE

                    from darker spaces,
                    less aligned,
                    this chaos grips us
                    and scatters being
                    in broken fragments
                    strewn abouts,
                    disturbing vector,
                    warping line

                    all is change,
                    maelstrom of doubt;
                    all is loss
                    tossed on storms,
                    yet prophesied
                    throughout the years,
                    deep under dreams

                    these center zones
                    never shift,
                    yet they are buried
                    in matrices
                    cyclically weathered
                    and laid down anew,
                    a churning morass
                    of sorrow and pain

                    we have found in this
                    fresh fonts of tears,
                    untapped wells
                    of anguished states
                    once echoed from futures
                    which now become the past,
                    a pattern too common
                    to fully bear such weight

                    we walk alone
                    into our nightmares,
                    blinded, bleeding,
                    unable to attain
                    status or stasis,
                    direction or deed,
                    without that guidance
                    or one true care

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2004 by Brendan Tripp


                    THESE MUNDANE DAYS

                    small interiors,
                    hid within,
                    outside the storm
                    rages on;
                    a madness forms
                    amid these darks
                    as desperation
                    grips the soul

                    we seek asylum
                    from the ache,
                    the long decaying
                    reach of time
                    which bears away
                    all trace of good,
                    unsavored, lost,
                    tumbled down

                    we can't recall
                    the unhurt days,
                    we can not frame
                    the context where
                    sorrow infrequent
                    tinged the heart
                    instead of anguish
                    through wake and sleep

                    tiny fragments
                    flit through mind
                    like confetti,
                    shreds of photos
                    of happy states;
                    they tease and taunt,
                    never forming wholes
                    allowing us recall

                    all this absence
                    feeds despair
                    as the hours
                    beat us down
                    and salt the wounds
                    of ten thousand cuts,
                    the unrelenting crush
                    of these mundane days

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2004 by Brendan Tripp



                    searching out the quiet
                    and the center
                    and the calm
                    within this madness,
                    amid the storm;
                    so few the windows,
                    so rare the doors
                    leading there

                    days spin out
                    a web of weeks,
                    matrices of months,
                    and chains of years;
                    we are caught
                    in that illusion,
                    caged by the rush
                    of sensate things

                    no matter the pattern
                    the base is the same,
                    beneath all these strata
                    an emptiness bides
                    yet hidden, occluded,
                    deep behind veils
                    of doubt and delusion,
                    belief and deceit

                    in moments between things,
                    in unscheduled times,
                    the shackles slip off,
                    the blindfold grows thin,
                    and then might we touch
                    the zone of the real,
                    the subtle expression
                    of the one truer self

                    but too much the world
                    weighs heavy on us,
                    grinding, oppressing,
                    destroying our dreams;
                    so hard to divide
                    the nightmare of life
                    from the basis of being,
                    far beyond these onslaughts

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2004 by Brendan Tripp


Well, I guess this proves that I've not "been dealing with my Mother's death via art", as only the middle of these was writting spefically addressing that. I suspect that the extreme paucity of my writing so far in 2004 is, in large part, about not wanting to "go inside" and hit that hurt again. After all, I was breaking down crying on a daily basis for months, and trying to write "from there" would be a very hard thing indeed. Oh well ... now I just need to get that other notebook done and I'll be "caught up" on the current-era poems!

Wow ... speaking of "lean years", from mid-February 2003 to mid-February 2004 I only wrote ten poems! Now, there are a bunch from January 2003 (when I was still at Chubb) that I haven't transcribed yet, but that's amazingly little out-put for me. Bleh ... new fuel for my self-loathing!

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