Anyway, I had one of these sitting around on my desk that I'd filled up back in 2002 which I'd never quite gotten around to typing up. As you could guess from the above, there is a lot of "deciphering" involved in getting these from my hieroglyphic scratches into the computer, so this tends to be a bit of a pain when I do get to working on them ... but I was desperately looking for something "useful" to do last night, so got 9 of them typed up before burning out on it (that's about 1/5 of the notebook done).
NO PLACE NOT CRUSHING
so much dread
so much horror
we can not shake
the terror of it all
the vast abyss
which threatens every footfall
the sleeping mass
that would smother out all light
too many fronts
the enemy engages
we can not move
without some vile attack
there is no space
which would provide us safety
there is no time
free of these assaults
we are trapped
in a sharply spiked containment
a shrinking cage
with razor-edged constraints
these dungeon walls
are hewn out of the bedrock
this prison holds
no hope of an escape
what pill defends
from this malaise?
what platitudes
shift the despair?
we have no recourse,
no place within the world
which is not crushing
and filled with lethal spite
too many dreams destroyed
too many plans sabotaged
nothing leads to goodness
nothing frees from pain
each day a cycle turn
lower, darker, into depths
from which we can't be freed
not even by our death
- Brendan Tripp
10/15/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
... that's one ...
SO RIPE WITH LOSS
these nightmares
these frustrations
we are stripped of time
we are stripped of will
nothing good happens
and nothing can build,
drained of resolve
bled dry of hope
dark terrors bloom
as unexpected states,
deadly flora,
mushrooming from banes
hidden in the world,
caught in seams, wrinkles,
hidden places, unseen,
unable to be countered
too pitiful, the scraps,
these bits of hope
and broken shards of dreams
they drip an anguish
that few could bear
and stink of sorrow
so ripe with loss
that none endure
we fly again
into the storm,
we have no choice,
no way to cede
these actions from our soul,
so driven to achieve
despite these histories
of unending failure
these days unfold
in contrary ways
not following recall
or its anticipation,
they find new manners
for their decline
fresh modalities
for our destruction
- Brendan Tripp
10/16/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
... that's two ...
RUN DOWN IN SPIRALS
we can not count
we can not know
the specifics of the day
all is blurred, obscured,
made distant,
in plain reach
empty and a void,
phantasm to touch
such frustration here,
we are the prisoner
dreaming of freedom
yet awakening to chain;
a cripple, we would run,
yet find no motion
no matter how we will
the broken bits to go
the mind decays,
bit by bit going blank,
unable to process,
unable to weave
these wisps of input
into whole perceptions,
we can not reach
the slightest need
broken, damaged,
nearly destroyed,
we sink to illness,
are impaled by pain;
so many spikes drive
into the skull,
we are blinded
made all unwell
wasted days crawl
without any purpose
nights fly by
without any rest
nothing is built
nothing achieved
run down in spirals
of decaying death
- Brendan Tripp
10/21/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
... that's three ...
INVERSIONS OF THE REAL
only this dragging,
only this pain;
we have no frame
within the day,
no structure which supports,
no function to proclaim,
no place to be,
no way to live
we are beaten, bled,
broken and battered
driven down into low states
darker zones of dire decay
which grip the soul
and smother spirit
leaving nothing
no trace of me
we can not win,
we are not qualified
to operate in worlds
so twisted and perverse;
we find no light
as all is filtered
to be inversions
of what is real
we run in desperation
but never can we flee,
each step is useless,
moving nowhere,
reaching no goals,
all empty exertion
a cruel treadmill
without escape
all dreams are pointless
within this zone
all aspirations target
of hostile states
where subtle currents
wait to destroy
all hopes for futures
released from its cage
- Brendan Tripp
10/23/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
... that's four ...
CONFUSING MODES OF VOID
1
unprepared
we can not gauge
these functions,
we can not plot
on grid-lines
what shifts between;
we find the vector
without intent
2
isolation freezes,
no one else resides
within these crosshairs,
no uncertainty needed
to see that only I
am targeted this way
in claustrophobic empty
and confusing modes of void
3
plans infect us
they set an itch
just beneath the form
and spew out options
based on nothing but vague needs
and half-remembered
aspects of the past
floating in the mix
4
we are embedded
thick layers of doubt
flow over us
sealing us away
from light and life
entombed in a darkness
that waits erosion
and aeons to free
5
the pain of loss
the guilt of failure
the deep frustrations
of never reaching goals
these are the constants
the base-line state
all things begin
tinged with their ache
- Brendan Tripp
10/24/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
... that's five ...
THROUGH UNYIELDING NIGHT
the abyss of unable
the chasm of failed
the depths of frustration
grip us again
no plans succeed
no intents evolve
each day is a plummet
into far baser states
all the we touch
is poisoned here,
all efforts made
are as in dreams,
stymied, constricted,
pointlessly wasted,
for this world is no good
and allows us no life
we are fooled sometimes
by flashing glints
of what we hope is light,
but these are always
steel on stone striking,
or the grinding of
the dark machines
lurking in the shadows
we are lost within this maze,
there is no way to track
the shifting forms
of convoluted passage
through unyielding night,
no way to map
an exit from entrapment,
a path that would lead free
spun down in vortex,
the maelstrom pull
of inevitable destruction
drags us onward
into relentless void,
a blank condition
without respite
without true being
- Brendan Tripp
10/25/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
... that's six ...
UNWILLING TO THAT SHADOW
1
fallen behind
fallen beneath
dropped below
horizon planes
nothing succeeds
nothing endures
but states of panic
realms of misery
2
illness sweeps
across the day;
impinged by spikes,
a head displayed
on traitors gate,
crushed in pieces
a world of pain
throbbing, dragging
3
we press against time
but cannot budge
the steely walls;
we throw intent
into the void,
no meaning matters
no sense is made
nothing good is here
4
the myriad voices
all in chorus
foist demand,
grind on will;
we can not fill
these lists insistent,
we can not save
the merest bit
5
this hunger gnaws
as sleep demands
some sloth of us
we yield, unwilling
to that shadow,
a broken puppet
yet tied by strings
not subject to our hand
- Brendan Tripp
10/28/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
... that's seven ...
SO ALIEN WITHIN THAT SLEEP
a different placement
an altered vibe
we can not track
the source within
and wonder what
external sway
might change these currents,
re-write this script
stupid hope returns
denying all fact;
that lights we see
are not new flame,
that doorways sensed
are not the gate
to fresh abysses,
unfamiliar hells
so many things
weigh down the day
we can not trust
in what seems good
knowing too well
how dark this world can be
and how far down
we've yet to fall
ours the nightmare
played out amid
the consensual dream
of the sleeping mass;
this false reality
all a phantasm,
a mad concoction
of stupidity and lies
every echo would deny
our very presence
so alien within that sleep,
so unnatural
to their mundane state,
as they would be to the light
and to the real
if ever they would wake
- Brendan Tripp
10/29/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
... that's eight ...
BEHIND THE SEEN
1
days of narrow margin
come upon us now
when others sense
the mirror world
and beings float
across that line
calling for awareness
that the mass will never cede
2
so many weights
are hooked to spirit
to drag it down
to press unyielding
upon its form
and force it to
those empty realms
devoid of light
3
gears grind on
behind the seen
none suspect that panels
could be lifted out of sight
to reveal the working
plain and without doubt
but none can feel the edges
in the mundane dream
4
what is acquired,
what is obtained,
what is amassed,
what is achieved?
nothing arrives,
no prayers are answered
and every fear
made manifest
5
fallen states
in the abyss
we plummet now
deep to dark
lose our grip
upon this ledge
and drop away
into the mists
- Brendan Tripp
10/31/2002
Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
... and that's nine! Aren't you all the lucky ones?
(sigh) Even though I wrote these the better part of four years ago, the really sad thing is that I could have written them last month, or a decade or more back. The themes have not changed, the realities behind my experiences have not improved, and my perception that life is nothing but a painful plummet down towards doom has never encountered the slightest shred of contrary data. I really wish things could get better ... but to even hope that they might (except in a vague "I could still win the Lottery" sort of way) seems to be an attempt to dupe myself in the most egregious and cynical manner. Again, I wish things were better, I wish something I attempted didn't end up as a huge fucking failure, I wish there was something positive that would filter into my emotional reality ... but that's pretty much like wishing for cotton-candy clouds and friendly unicorns that shit gold.
Bleh. Sucks to be me. Hope you like reading about it.