BTRIPP (btripp) wrote,

Another EIGHT poems ... we're almost done ...

Ah, another project that I didn't get around to on the weekend! As I noted in my last bunch-o-poems post, I was down to two more sets of eight to get through that particular little notebook I'm transcribing ... so we're almost done!

                    TOMORROW DOES NOT FREE

                    we crawl to the edge
                    weary from journeys,
                    broken and battered,
                    and what do we see?
                    a new abyss,
                    fresh darkness,
                    more torture lurking
                    in days ahead

                    never a bottom,
                    never an end,
                    every plateau
                    only leads down,
                    every pause in descent
                    is a ruse, a feint,
                    a lure to tease
                    with thoughts of ease

                    no, this damnation
                    goes deeper still
                    I have glimpsed behind
                    the curtain of deceit
                    to see the path
                    laid out for us
                    with all the pain
                    and untold anguish

                    tomorrow does not free,
                    it is just the first step
                    into new-wrought doom;
                    we are surely cursed,
                    as all things fail
                    and every dream is ruined
                    in the onslaught
                    of an insane evil world

                    we have nothing
                    but our regrets
                    and a taloned fear
                    that rips the mind
                    and lacerates the soul
                    we cannot face
                    the trials before us,
                    we can not stand more pain

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's thirtytwo ...

                    ACID DRIPPING SPITE

                    why is that
                    this realm of blue skies
                    and calm air
                    and gentle heat
                    won't reach to me,
                    am I coccooned
                    within a zone
                    of isolated pain?
                    too many plans,
                    not enough hours,
                    we run on rails
                    from point to point,
                    rushing vectors
                    which leave no time
                    for sleep or quiet,
                    relaxing or ease
                    strange patterns form
                    in back-current eddies
                    that look like boons
                    amid all of the bane,
                    these prodigies
                    bait our believing
                    that something good
                    could rise again
                    as losses mount
                    and wounds debilitate
                    we can not hold
                    old dreams as real;
                    death enfolds
                    and themes the future,
                    casting shadows
                    across all frames
                    the darkness falls
                    as though a cloak
                    that would defend
                    against the world
                    whose cutting winds
                    and subhuman hordes
                    churn mundane madness
                    and acid dripping spite

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's thirtythree ...

                    IN MUNDANE HELL'S WAKE

                    the abyss opens
                    as time lies to us
                    to lure us to the pit,
                    every hope broken,
                    every plan failed,
                    we plummet into depths
                    with no promise of return,
                    no prospect of release
                    there are insufficient words
                    to express this anguish,
                    there are not enough verbs
                    to capture our pain,
                    no adjectives serve
                    to frame the horror
                    of what this world is
                    or the suffering it bears
                    in moments of calm
                    come glimpses of clarity
                    of the nightmares ahead,
                    the hideous trials
                    which will make our days
                    spent in torture here
                    seem like a heaven
                    of tormentless time
                    what is this darkness
                    which grips the soul
                    and poisons the heart?
                    we are immersed in it
                    as fish are in the sea,
                    we breathe it in,
                    enfolding, all encompassing,
                    it is all we see
                    all wrong, all vile,
                    the greyness swallows
                    dragging down to voids
                    in mundane hell's wake;
                    we can not reach the stars
                    when denied the sky,
                    we can not find the truth
                    when everything's a lie

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's thirtyfour ...

                    TOO HATEFUL, TOO VILE

                    caught by blindness,
                    frozen in time,
                    all goes forgotten
                    in Lethe's grasp,
                    run down river
                    and out to sea
                    while nothing's seen
                    out of the real

                    locked into mid-points,
                    unable to shift
                    from realms of intent
                    to those of action,
                    no sign posts show
                    the way to free,
                    no maps trace out
                    the road to light

                    into oblivion,
                    ever so lost,
                    we move without reason,
                    sliding through space
                    as if to scratch
                    some persistent itch
                    deeply beyond
                    the facade of the age

                    outside of the grid
                    we can not place marks
                    all swirls, convolutes,
                    recurses unending
                    as externals erupt
                    and internal fires
                    drive deeper still
                    the masses we bear

                    we scrabble for hope
                    where we know there is none,
                    scraping at dirt
                    for the merest glint
                    of something exalted,
                    this world is too dull
                    to offer me that,
                    too hostile, too hateful, too vile

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's thirtyfive ...

                    FRANTIC IN LOSS

                    nothing here fulfilled,
                    nothing here complete,
                    everything in absence
                    broken, degraded,
                    unable to attain
                    the vaguest goal,
                    unable to achieve
                    the merest aim
                    distorted hours,
                    constricted lanes,
                    nothing moving,
                    all locked behind
                    unyielding gates;
                    we are blinded here,
                    set to decay
                    beyond all focus
                    nightmares rise,
                    no defense,
                    no refuge,
                    all dreams die,
                    stolen from us,
                    ripped from fingers
                    desperate in grasp,
                    frantic in loss
                    we see the marks
                    of damaged days,
                    nothing flows,
                    we can't connect
                    with any source
                    within our reach,
                    we struggle with bonds
                    suffocating us
                    vague relief
                    oozes in,
                    we fail less than those,
                    we fall less low;
                    cheap comfort that
                    we are not as vile
                    as we'd suspected,
                    not as direly down

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's thirtysix ...

                    IN THIS CYCLE EVER DOWN

                    can we believe
                    that any veil's
                    removal means anything
                    as far as freeing
                    or seeding change?
                    so artificial,
                    these mundane modes,
                    so very hollow

                    deep inside us, though,
                    there lurks an ache
                    which would desire
                    that all these lies were true,
                    that by the turning
                    of an imagined page
                    days were refreshed
                    and somehow renewed

                    we've seen too many
                    of this kind pass
                    to let ourselves hope,
                    knowing that by hoping
                    we are doomed to despair
                    as these are as linked
                    as belief and blindness
                    in this cycle ever down

                    the nightmare has a steely grip,
                    all its denizens
                    reek of madness,
                    degradation and decay,
                    it has no lines
                    which are not warped,
                    no vectors running
                    which are not twisted

                    deeper and darker,
                    there is no light
                    and no release;
                    we are chained here,
                    cast to a world
                    that is to us Hell,
                    sent down to torments
                    none others would suspect

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's thirtyseven ...

                    MADNESS AS PATTERN

                    it is all useless
                    it is all empty
                    it is all perfunctory
                    nothing means anything,
                    we fall ceaselessly,
                    passing into void
                    passing into dark
                    passing out of time
                    no change
                    no shift
                    no movement through
                    we press one act
                    and not the frame
                    we inch the mountain
                    but no one knows
                    or cares
                    deluded forms
                    in the deluge
                    nothing tracks
                    beneath the flow
                    ancient distance
                    measured down
                    and deeper still
                    now cloaked by waves
                    the abyss spreads,
                    the chasm widens,
                    all is swallowed
                    by these depths;
                    nightmares erupt
                    and burn through sleep,
                    searing our sanity,
                    charring our trust
                    smothering days
                    unable to breathe
                    unable to move
                    locked into rotes
                    of chaotic design,
                    madness as pattern
                    failure as tone
                    with no route away

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2002 by Brendan Tripp

... that's thirtyeight ...

                    EMPTIED OF BELIEF

                    we are nothing
                    but the bleeding,
                    we have nothing
                    but the ache
                    of broken promise,
                    demolished dreams

                    all our vectors
                    end unfulfilled,
                    leading nowhere,
                    at one with void;
                    more decaying,
                    more despair
                    comes a'dawning
                    with each new day

                    all these fragments
                    gel into lies,
                    splintered bits
                    of failed intents
                    which cannot meld
                    with prophesy,
                    can not attain
                    the needed myth

                    too long abandoned
                    all things conspire
                    to break the will
                    and cast us down
                    to lower states
                    of abject loss,
                    hopeless, prayerless,
                    emptied of belief

                    we are the carrion
                    torn by mundane beaks
                    of rapacious demand,
                    too often dead
                    as by decree,
                    we cannot fight
                    these scavengers
                    aching for their feast

                             - Brendan Tripp

                    Copyright © 2003 by Brendan Tripp

... and that's thirtynine ...

I gotta tell ya ... I'm going to be happy to get finished with this ... there were a bunch of points in this current batch where I had to tap-dance around totally indecipherable passages. This worries me for another project I've been putting off for years ... I have travel journals that I've never typed up, and some of those date back to my "drinking days", a couple of decades and more back ... and if I'm having a hard time decoding my sober scrawl from a handful of years ago, I hate to think what some of that stuff penned after a few margaritas at the bar at some Archaeological Villas at a ruin site is going to be like to transcibe!

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Tags: poetry

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