BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

Huh? NINE poems???

Yes, you read that right ... buried in his post are 9 poems from October of 2002. I usually, if "I am writing", carry around one of these little notebooks that I put together just for jotting down poems ...

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

                    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

                    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

                    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

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's four ...

                    CONFUSING MODES OF VOID

                    we can not gauge
                    these functions,
                    we can not plot
                    on grid-lines
                    what shifts between;
                    we find the vector
                    without intent
                    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
                    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
                    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
                    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

                    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

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's six ...

                    UNWILLING TO THAT SHADOW

                    fallen behind
                    fallen beneath
                    dropped below
                    horizon planes
                    nothing succeeds
                    nothing endures
                    but states of panic
                    realms of misery
                    illness sweeps
                    across the day;
                    impinged by spikes,
                    a head displayed
                    on traitors gate,
                    crushed in pieces
                    a world of pain
                    throbbing, dragging
                    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
                    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
                    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

                    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

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's eight ...

                    BEHIND THE SEEN

                    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
                    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
                    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
                    what is acquired,
                    what is obtained,
                    what is amassed,
                    what is achieved?
                    nothing arrives,
                    no prayers are answered
                    and every fear
                    made manifest
                    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

                    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.

Visit the BTRIPP home page!

Tags: poetry
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.