BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

Oh, and SIX more poems ...

OK, I typed up a few more pages out of that notebook ... here are another six poems ...

                    WITHIN AMBER, ENTOMBED

                    the darkest days
                    unable to be,
                    thickly embedded
                    unable to do,
                    no vector aligns
                    no function persists
                    we are stuck within amber,
                    entombed for the age

                    unlikely visions
                    swarm before eyes
                    we can not sort
                    prodigy from delusion
                    can't determine
                    what is stranger here
                    and what's unreal,
                    solely of the mind

                    we press too hard
                    at our constraints
                    and come to bleed
                    at all connecting points,
                    anguish follows terror
                    into the sea of dread
                    we are paralyzed
                    with no means of escape

                    now come ventures
                    so full of fear
                    that they seem distant
                    so filtered by desire
                    to pass them by
                    even though they linger
                    immediate at hand
                    ready to destroy

                    against intent
                    against belief
                    webs are spinning
                    in wrong configurations
                    what is trapped within?
                    we, unwitting,
                    become the prey
                    despite all will

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's ten ...

                    UNEASE THE OCEAN

                    into strange darkness,
                    so unprepared,
                    we are ripped from ease
                    and placed into air
                    vectored with heat
                    and without recourse
                    against every fever's
                    delusional slide

                    not in these times
                    or in these places
                    context devolves
                    buttressed by prayer
                    we journey so far
                    in contrary ways
                    and worry return
                    can not be attained

                    sweltering doubt
                    and fitful fears,
                    unease the ocean
                    in which we swim;
                    patterns emerge
                    tracing the lines
                    of previous nightmares,
                    long dissolved dreams

                    the factors active
                    are not the ones
                    held within plan
                    we dread diversion
                    and wasted days
                    and doubt the function
                    of these hours pressed
                    to service here

                    all things collapse
                    that we hold dear
                    all that we've built
                    is swept away
                    before the blast
                    of evil worlds
                    whose relentless rage
                    seeks our demise

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's eleven ...

                    ENDLESS CHAINS OF LOSS

                    so many failings
                    so much undone
                    we can't attain
                    the basic states
                    nor achieve modes
                    of mere survival
                    so broken here,
                    cast down so low

                    in fevered dreams
                    and tracks of history
                    we can't align
                    with either frame
                    we can't return
                    to long-lost freedoms
                    or to depend
                    on future days

                    all things unreal
                    deep in the nightmare
                    with no escaping
                    no true release;
                    cycles and spheres
                    press on me now
                    with bands and blades
                    spikes and cudgels

                    how to meet need?
                    all the forms are bent
                    to deflect our grasp
                    and every want
                    is tainted with dread
                    nothing unsullied
                    nothing untouched
                    by hidden costs

                    the touch of death
                    corrupts the soul
                    we are poisoned,
                    laid waste by days
                    in ceaseless conflict,
                    endless chains of loss,
                    we are dragged down
                    into the crushing dark

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's twelve ...

                    SO FAR BELOW OUR DREAMS

                    everything breaks down
                    turns to darkness
                    we swim in poisons
                    a bane-filled world
                    all hostile and insane
                    life's a nightmare
                    twisted and unreal
                    evil and malign

                    all things conspire
                    to serve up failure
                    nothing we try
                    meets with success
                    no effort expended
                    attains its goal
                    no sought-for aim
                    is ever achieved

                    days drag downward
                    desperately doomed
                    all is illness
                    all is anguish
                    all is horror,
                    despair and dread,
                    chained to direst fates
                    and futures full of fear

                    I can not face tomorrow
                    I can not stand today
                    our history devolves
                    to a tragedy, a farce,
                    pointless and bitter
                    clown-like in ways
                    of inevitable pain
                    and ridiculous falls

                    we have nothing left
                    to sustain us
                    our every act a failure
                    our breath, our steps,
                    all insufficient
                    all falling short
                    of our intent
                    and so far below our dreams

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's thirteen ...

                    UNABLE TO UNWIND

                    how unrelenting
                    how much the same
                    do we relive
                    the same cycles
                    again and again?
                    is this damnation
                    not linearly set
                    but spinning iterations?

                    the day leads down
                    as it always does
                    into cycles of anguish
                    and dead ends of pain
                    nothing good
                    ever counters this
                    no relief, no release,
                    no way to flee

                    every positive
                    is swamped beneath
                    the raging flood
                    of broken dreams
                    of cruel fate
                    of horrid luck
                    which tears apart our spirit
                    and suffocates our soul

                    we can not believe
                    in tomorrow
                    we can not have hope
                    of better days
                    we can not trust prayer
                    to find an answer
                    instead of mocking
                    and derisive spite

                    this evil world
                    this stupid race
                    all things are twisted,
                    knotted, unable to unwind,
                    we need a sword
                    to cut this open
                    to split the madness
                    and rend the vile mundane

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's fourteen ...

                    ALL THINGS, RANCID WITH BILE

                    no matter how hard
                    we focus in time
                    the hours slip by
                    without achieving
                    we stand, stunned
                    in the face of failure
                    wondering if ever
                    we could succeed
                    how twisted the world
                    how evilly set
                    to terrorize us
                    with unending abuse
                    but sometimes its plan
                    is too convoluted
                    and offers to us
                    the third out of three
                    what should be good
                    is wrapped up in dread
                    knowing frustration
                    will sweep through day
                    and cause us to falter
                    before it can arise
                    and make all things sweet
                    rancid with bile
                    no solution
                    nor any results
                    the slate is barren
                    ground to dust
                    we are an emptiness
                    void not unfilled
                    a blank negation
                    with no point to start
                    and further down
                    these gravities drag
                    we are forced into anguish
                    and darker despair
                    new modes of blackness
                    with less light than Hell
                    and deeper depressions
                    than any survive

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... and that's fifteen! Almost 1/3 through that notebook ... once again, lucky you!

Yes, I do think I'm going to be trying to press though getting the rest of that typed up ... it was bad enough that the untouched notebook sat untranscribed for nearly four years, but it would drive me nuts to have a half-finished project hanging like that, so look for a bunch more of these lovely cheery screeds showing up under an LJ-Cut on your FL in the next few days!

Visit the BTRIPP home page!

Tags: poetry
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