BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,
BTRIPP
btripp

Another EIGHT more poems!

You're getting tired of this, right?

Nobody's reading any of these anyway, are they?

Well, the little notebook I'm transcribing has got 47 poems in it, and this batch just brings us up to 23 ... so we're only half through. Might as well sit back and enjoy it. Click on a poem and think of England or something ...



                    MORE WAYS TO FIND FAILURE


                    nightmares erupt
                    madness ensues
                    we are hounded by horrors,
                    harried by beasts,
                    beaten and bloodied,
                    driven down in defeat,
                    crushed of all spirit,
                    drained of all will

                    what tomorrow offers
                    is just more of the same
                    more anguish, more sorrow,
                    more illness, more pain,
                    more ways to find failure
                    and let slip victory
                    in this unending cycle
                    of debasing and loss

                    as worse comes to worse
                    as it seemingly must
                    we lose all our focus
                    and forget every aim
                    and curl into lumps
                    to fend off hateful blows
                    the unrelenting attack
                    of a cruel mundane world

                    savaged and hopeless
                    broken and tired
                    nothing remains
                    nothing sustains
                    but bitterest rancors
                    and despite the rage
                    the simmering vengeance
                    never unleashed

                    how to fight on
                    against staggering odds?
                    how to stiffen resolve
                    when damaged and trashed?
                    how can we alter dawn
                    to craft a new way
                    when all of our history
                    speaks only of doom?



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/12/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's sixteen ...



                    NO MEANS OF SURVIVAL


                    everything is destroyed
                    which is needed
                    which is hoped for
                    which is so desired
                    everything we care for
                    is target, cross-haired
                    at the focus
                    of the mundane storm

                    we stand surrounded
                    by forces of despite
                    the blind, the stupid,
                    the sleeping, and the vile,
                    all press upon us
                    leaving us no space,
                    no place for retreat
                    no means of survival

                    it is a nightmare time
                    a horror unrelenting
                    a zone of blades
                    and saw-tooth edges
                    ripping, rending,
                    tearing us apart
                    leaving us in tatters
                    bits never to be healed

                    we can not allot
                    time within chaos
                    all things are now
                    and all demand
                    there is no filter
                    there is no buffer
                    no way to sort or order
                    one panic from the next

                    too dark, my eyes,
                    too dire, my vision,
                    all I see is death
                    all I know is anguish
                    I am twisted into modes
                    which ache for ending
                    bleeding out the prayers
                    of termination come



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/13/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's seventeen ...



                    TAINTED BY THESE BANES


                    the cycles of misfortune
                    yet refuse to yield,
                    we are driven down,
                    pummeled by events,
                    beset with failings
                    far beyond the scope
                    of probabilities
                    or even fate

                    we are the target
                    of the world's despite
                    we, the focus
                    of destructive rays
                    seeking to corrupt
                    a once-clear future,
                    attempting to disrupt
                    the prophesied fate

                    the darkness folds
                    around the soul
                    the spirit falters,
                    tainted by these banes,
                    collapsing inward
                    down to despair
                    dimmer, direr,
                    dependant and distraught

                    crushed by masses
                    of horror, dread,
                    we can not arise
                    to do battle with the day
                    we are laid low by hours
                    of useless toil
                    the grinding frustration
                    of ruined intent

                    at every turn, stymied,
                    every task is scuttled,
                    forced from completion
                    into the mire
                    of unachieved goals
                    and unmet destiny,
                    the vast wasteland
                    of defeated existence



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/15/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's eighteen ...



                    DOWN TO THESE DEPTHS


                    1
                    never enough,
                    our insufficience
                    is without end,
                    our failings
                    without lower bound,
                    our inadequacies
                    within the world
                    too deep to grasp
                    2
                    all that depends
                    upon my self
                    is doomed to drop
                    into states of loss;
                    all those whom I
                    have to support
                    can not rely
                    on what I do
                    3
                    strange happening
                    we can not chart
                    how this arrives,
                    different vistas
                    on alternate paths
                    bring us to contact
                    with other worlds,
                    impossible states
                    4
                    no vector takes
                    us to our need,
                    no gateway bids
                    our passage through,
                    no place allows
                    a homeward stance,
                    no journey leads
                    beyond the pit
                    5
                    this emptiness,
                    this swallowing void,
                    we are consumed,
                    ground into bits;
                    negation swells,
                    breaks as a wave,
                    sweeping everything
                    down to these depths


                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/16/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's nineteen ...



                    DIMENSIONS NOT IN SYNCH


                    1
                    in these systems
                    we have faltered
                    our dimensions
                    not in synch
                    with what exists
                    in worlds outside
                    with the demands
                    of the mundane
                    2
                    too few hours
                    we can not do
                    a fragment
                    of our need,
                    we can not fill
                    these lists enscribed
                    with waiting acts
                    disjoint from time
                    3
                    functions broken
                    yet not shattered
                    our foreboding
                    expands to light,
                    we shift the strange
                    within our rote
                    an alteration
                    not quite replaced
                    4
                    beyond meaning
                    well past intent
                    we juggle frames
                    of time and place
                    charting a line
                    through the chaos
                    hoping the drive
                    attains some aim
                    5
                    the abyss
                    opens up
                    we plummet
                    to the depths
                    the darkness
                    folds around
                    we smother
                    in its grip


                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/19/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's twenty ...



                    DIRER LEVELS OF DESCENT


                    there are depths unplumbed,
                    there are nightmares too horrid,
                    we have lost the thing
                    which held us here,
                    we have now failed
                    at everything,
                    we have no more excuses
                    to keep on living

                    I have no purpose here
                    it is constant torture,
                    madness at all sides,
                    abuse in every day,
                    stupid dreams maintaining
                    that something more might be
                    but this is ruined
                    I am as dust

                    I ache for death,
                    for a release,
                    for a way to flee
                    this mundane Hell;
                    could suicide
                    be any worse
                    than living through
                    this torment?

                    every time
                    we think there is
                    no lower state
                    for us to find,
                    the evil comes
                    and knocks away
                    our scant support
                    to make us drop

                    deeper, darker,
                    direr levels of descent
                    now reach for us;
                    we are damaged,
                    damned and defiled,
                    cast down to pits
                    of anguish and despair,
                    unable to recall the light



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/20/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's twentyone ...



                    TEMPLATES OF ANGUISH


                    1
                    taking what we can
                    leverage from time,
                    scraping off the walls
                    some slight sustenance,
                    trying to warp space
                    for a little extra room,
                    a minor buffer
                    against panic and despair
                    2
                    sometimes nightmares
                    loom as storms
                    dark, threatening,
                    hover on horizons
                    and then pass by
                    satisfied to terrorize
                    with their mere approach
                    not needing to arrive
                    3
                    the darkness enfolds,
                    we have nothing good left,
                    no hopes, no dreams,
                    no expectations
                    of a better day,
                    we are desolate,
                    broken and unwhole,
                    aching for our death
                    4
                    this illness
                    seeps through pores
                    runs through sinews,
                    taints the breath,
                    it carries terror,
                    doubt and dread,
                    to every fiber,
                    every aspect of being
                    5
                    we find our lives
                    reside in songs
                    of madness, isolation,
                    these echo in the head
                    providing templates
                    of anguish and despair
                    which we endure
                    through all these days


                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/21/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's twentytwo ...



                    IN UNSEEN DUNGEONS


                    no maintaining
                    of intents,
                    no achieving
                    of our dreams,
                    no approaching
                    any goals,
                    no obtaining
                    of desire

                    we are lost
                    within the grey,
                    cast adrift
                    in unsure zones,
                    we have no means
                    to control
                    the random shift
                    from state to state

                    every day
                    digs deeper still
                    into the grave,
                    every hour
                    tears from the flesh
                    its vitality,
                    nothing centers
                    nothing saves

                    the nightmare grinds
                    through waking frames,
                    all good, illusion,
                    all evil, far too real;
                    we are trapped
                    in unseen dungeons
                    denied all hope
                    removed from light

                    no plans compute,
                    too much crosswind
                    to choose a course,
                    too much chaos
                    to make a map,
                    too much madness
                    to get beyond
                    this darker stage



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                11/27/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... and, that's twentythree ...

See, that wasn't so bad for you, was it? Trust me, the agony is all mine.


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