BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,
BTRIPP
btripp

More, more, you're still not satisfied ... EIGHT more poems!

OK, we're on the downhill side of this transcription project ... unless I'm grossly mistaken, there are only another sixteen to type up ... which means you'll be seeing another couple of posts like this before I'm through. Oh, by the way (just in case you've not been paying attention, ahem), the numbers referenced below are a cumulative count of poems from the particular little notebook (see here) that I'm currently trying to wrest out of my scrawl and into human-readable form.



                    YET HAVING LESS


                    so, there it is,
                    the wasteland,
                    the empty plane,
                    the place where all
                    things are shriveled,
                    sere husks in heat,
                    void and waiting
                    the sweeping winds

                    this hollowness
                    consumes each point
                    we have none of now
                    nor slice of then
                    we lost all here
                    in promise of there
                    and find no anchor
                    even if in jest

                    the void escapes
                    construction bounds
                    and spreads as meme
                    sudden through each frame,
                    its unformed crystals
                    seize all flow,
                    dropping from the sensate
                    to the vacant realms

                    worlds betide themselves,
                    they bear the banners
                    of their founding states
                    and move in lockstep
                    to the martial themes
                    which herald their deity;
                    no escaping this,
                    no single mode to flee

                    and so, downward,
                    into darkness,
                    into the gap
                    between existences,
                    the crowbar purchase
                    of ripped facades,
                    left knowing nothing
                    and yet having less



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                12/02/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's twentyfour ...



                    CRUSHED, SNUFFED OUT


                    more failure
                    more loss,
                    we can not achieve
                    anything we plan,
                    we can not attain
                    one of our desires,
                    we are damned,
                    cast down, accursed

                    nothing works here,
                    nothing succeeds,
                    we fail in detail
                    and we fail in whole,
                    no matter the frame
                    no matter the focus
                    our intents falter
                    our aims are destroyed

                    nothing we do
                    makes any difference
                    all acts breed disaster
                    all hopes seed attacks
                    by a criminal world
                    which is so aligned
                    to crush us to nothing
                    and snuff out our light

                    we battle the day
                    and try to hold night
                    but these lines constrict
                    and we can't shift
                    these burdens of ours
                    into fresh hours,
                    do drained is our time,
                    so limited, bare

                    entering void,
                    the darkness grips,
                    we are bound
                    with chains of damnation,
                    anchored to
                    the sacrifice stone,
                    yet not for atonement
                    but vile simple spite



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                12/04/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's twentyfive ...



                    SOMEHOW REMOVED


                    1
                    in abstraction,
                    all this falls
                    to number, form;
                    things decay
                    to lowest states,
                    dimension, focus,
                    points in space,
                    functions of time
                    2
                    so reckless,
                    we disregard
                    the reason sphere
                    seeking escape
                    by any means,
                    plotting a course
                    beyond our fears
                    of recurrence
                    3
                    even now
                    we see the flow
                    and how intents
                    are smothered under waves;
                    all systems set
                    are shattered here,
                    made unable
                    to sustain
                    4
                    we reach for things
                    that are not there,
                    flail at absences
                    not wholly sensed
                    or able to be framed
                    by our perception;
                    so needful, aching,
                    for our desires
                    5
                    point of tracing
                    we cut a path
                    in generated space
                    not real, not here,
                    but yet described
                    by the same math
                    somehow removed
                    to other spheres


                             - Brendan Tripp
                                12/06/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's twentysix ...



                    AND HOW CLOSE DOOM


                    of absence,
                    what is retained?
                    only loss of time,
                    only hours stripped away;
                    ease and calm
                    evaporate with dawn,
                    rest negated
                    by the panic shift

                    all trite lines
                    come to bear,
                    no matter where we go
                    the self is there,
                    no matter what we do
                    this weight of darkness
                    won't disappear
                    from our soul

                    all efforts, then,
                    fated to waste,
                    all visions of
                    some sweet escape,
                    hallucinations,
                    mirages thrown
                    by deep fatigue
                    and torture-bearing worlds

                    the anguish seethes,
                    roils and churns,
                    it is the ocean
                    in which we swim,
                    it is what we breathe
                    and are left to feed upon;
                    no day's without,
                    no sleep detached

                    horrid doubt,
                    gnawing fear,
                    we see how things
                    all fall apart,
                    how systems fail
                    and dreams decay,
                    and how close doom
                    approaches now



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                12/09/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's twentyseven ...



                    IN EVERY MOMENT'S PASSAGE


                    1
                    every disaster
                    is a second away,
                    we never have time
                    to savor success
                    because every good
                    unleashes the bad,
                    triggering onslaughts
                    of pain and destruction
                    2
                    around these cycles,
                    pressed to grinds,
                    we can not pause
                    to focus will,
                    we can not step
                    between the fires
                    to gather up our strength
                    to better stand these trials
                    3
                    in broken times,
                    all without seal,
                    we do not align
                    with normal scales,
                    can not attain
                    the mundane gauge,
                    and fail all surveys
                    for being not in synch
                    4
                    where is the key
                    to turn the world,
                    to unlock gates
                    which lead to light?
                    we are trapped here,
                    sealed within strain,
                    unable to reach
                    what lies beyond
                    5
                    memories reflect,
                    time twists around,
                    we fold these things
                    to encapsulate tomorrow
                    as though to set
                    back within
                    the absence swelling
                    in every moment's passage


                             - Brendan Tripp
                                12/11/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's twentyeight ...



                    LINES BENEATH THE WORDS


                    the numbers betray
                    the deeper doubt behind,
                    their symbols are masked
                    and made obscure
                    by madmen and prophets,
                    fools and the press,
                    unclear where to sort
                    unsure how to read

                    these calendars twist
                    as so many lie,
                    we pass, mark by mark,
                    all these events
                    which have no occurring
                    which fade into dreams
                    more bits of illusion
                    for the sleeping mass

                    which of these await
                    with kernels of truth,
                    which might bloom to the real
                    and find fruition
                    in such a barren field?
                    we trace the lines
                    beneath the words
                    in search of known glyphs

                    now take up patterns
                    ingrained of pasts
                    and seek to frame
                    them in new context;
                    so many chains
                    reach out of time
                    and make of freedom
                    a hazy dream

                    all is broken,
                    all incomplete,
                    there are no wholes
                    in shattered realms,
                    just shards and fragments,
                    sharp and razor edged,
                    awaiting mis-steps
                    to cut and bleed and bleed



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                12/12/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's twentynine ...



                    A TEARING DARKNESS


                    new depths are plumbed
                    of failure,
                    of remorse,
                    all our efforts
                    go for naught
                    and we plummet
                    to the abyss
                    of uselessness

                    no matter how
                    we press forward
                    they crush us still,
                    no matter how
                    we rail at time
                    it goes its way
                    unyielding to our pleas,
                    uncaring of our pain

                    too many things
                    are wasted here,
                    too much has gone
                    into inky voids
                    from which there's no return,
                    no retrieval,
                    no redemption,
                    no redress

                    we descend
                    towards black hole stars,
                    a tearing darkness
                    killing even light,
                    a gravid zone
                    where everything is weight
                    and bears upon us
                    lethal and unending

                    no power is
                    which frees from this,
                    no pathway worms
                    beyond its grasp,
                    we suffer unseen
                    by outer worlds
                    and scream unheeded
                    by even death



                             - Brendan Tripp
                                12/16/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... that's thirty ...



                    ALL THESE BUTCHERED DREAMS


                    1
                    in disbelief
                    in shortness of breath
                    in a panic
                    in all lateness
                    in deep dread
                    in anticipation
                    in transit
                    in time, perhaps
                    2
                    all vectors lead
                    towards anguish,
                    no direction
                    is free of angst,
                    of things undone,
                    and failures waiting
                    the insufficience
                    we have yet to face
                    3
                    unwhole patterns,
                    what leads beyond?
                    can we attain
                    some unity
                    if all is broken,
                    disjointed and piecemeal?
                    the downhill grasps
                    without means to steer
                    4
                    cycles of self-loathing,
                    spinning rounds
                    of dire despite,
                    seething hatred
                    of all that is human
                    as the self is human,
                    the dragging weight
                    of all that dirt
                    5
                    nothing remaining,
                    all is bled away,
                    intent falters
                    against unending blasts;
                    we reek of death,
                    everything is tainted
                    with the decay
                    of all these butchered dreams


                             - Brendan Tripp
                                12/17/2002

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp
 
 


... and that is thirtyone ... which is all that I have ready for you today!

Soooooo ... if you're real bored sometime in the next 24 hours, you will remember that these are here, and give them a clicky-clicky now, won't you? That would be so nice!


Visit the BTRIPP home page!



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