Fallen Dogs

By Wetdryvac

Fallen Dogs is the solidifying of ethics seen from the other side. An assessment and reconstitution of those things not spoken of. Ranging from unfortunate limerick to carefully constructed tonal patterns, each piece here processes towards assessment of breach and reaction, both to breach and self sanctity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716051470

Wetdryvac

Wetdryvac: A non-gendered mechanical contrivance designed specifically for interactions with humans driven by preconception, with the thus-far successful goal of rendering such preconceptions wompsie-sideways. Currently operating out of New England, wetdryvac.net, and similarly friendly locales.

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Fallen Dogs

Fallen Dogs

Copyright: 2004

Visit http://www.wetdryvac.net for more books, art, payment, and more.

Thank you for downloading or purchasing the 2020 Quarantine Edition of this work for reading on your computer or other digital device. I certainly hope you enjoy it. This material is available to you on the honor/pay what you think it’s worth system. By all means, feel free to read, enjoy, and not pay too – I feel it’s necessary that folks have the choice, and I do my best to provide that option on everything I write.

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Wetdryvac

This first is a longer poem, really – and I had to hesitate before including it, because it contains a number of fairly obvious flaws. Never the less, as an opener for work I consider comfortable, perhaps it is of assistance to include something which provides no comfort whatsoever. Thus:

Confessions

May 3, 1997

they wanted me to tell them everything

back then when I didn't even know who or why I was

they told me I had all the answers to cure myself

that I could figure out all the complex notions of the world

sooner than they could teach me

They taught me to hate

the world, them, myself

Once upon a way back then

I found that there were ways

means of self destruction

beyond the classical exorcism of personality

offered - even advertised

glorified - through the constant barrage

electronic black white television broadcasts

black and white

because

we were too poor to purchase that complex new Zenith model

claiming cable readiness

because I was and am a system

of on and off equations

with no in between most of the time

black and white

because that's what the world was supposed to come down to -

simplicity

they wanted me to expose all my black --

for intervention

where I was not wanted

for evil - for black I as wrong

white good

confessions

cleanse myself become

something

other

back then

even through the layering in of hate

I thought perhaps they were right

I have become -

not what they expected

there is a bitter cliché

called bitter taste to go

with ravaged thoughts and pussing words

spewed forth and called clean

there's a focusing down

that goes along with this

an annihilation of what I've been informed was my soul

sometimes all that's left now

strained-against-the-strappings rage

I can't do any more than paste out

with that veneer of civilization

they kept ranting incoherently about

in the back

of this half way to sullen mind

is a chair

stacked moments ago upon dozens of others

plastic and identical now - for this memory - it's taken its place

flush against the dusty white concrete

sitting here I can recall

the pressing in I feel

as it shows me again that fitting to form

was never intended by the manufacturers

"Make it look nice but you've go Ht to keep

the kids awake"

"Can't have 'em too sure of 'emselves

they'll fall asleep"

and it was so

now the chair is part of me

I'm part of it

wide awake watching

this one's mouth move

Why won't you behave like the other kids

silent

because I am not them

"Why won't you sit through

the methodology

our progressive system"

refuse to allow myself

rage

poisoned by your ethics

stamped case mass production

another lot here another

and more in line

"Why won't you just sit still for your classes

regurgitate these things we try to teach you"

these things you hold dear like my silence

are alien to me

your things are not mine - I know no kinship to you

We are so many more than you

in the end they beat me down

four years of my life

I sat within

brick walls on

chairs made for looks

knowing answers

I couldn't voice

showing up the other kids

begets ostracism

once one is one

twice two

is four four fours is sixteen

and on - progression

oft exemplified in later years

with rabbits

I was in third

grade timing my answers to their pride

and retribution

accepting their tests

on paper and playground

becoming what

I was not

four years of paraffin conformity

slipping through the grillwork classroom after classroom

they said I was better

running deep

saved more than just the Tridents in those days of rank

formation and file

from what I'm not quite sure

becoming?

I became what they wanted me to be

everything they ever wondered about

I've cut out my sole

possession watched it laid waste

handed back delicate

ribbons from it brushing against the floor

they told me

I was a new person

back then I though they might be right

Now I'm sure

In the end they beat me down

In the end

Rudyard Kipling

still speaks in my head

his works I read and cherished

works of devotion and arrogance

works of intellect

run spot run

his works told me of a place beyond myself

of poetry in motion

the flow of words

taunting

loving

all one

run spot run

see spot's runs

spot's proper noun lies dormant

in this mind

no longer survives

those happy children's books made by and for adults

he's weaving cartoon tales and lies

cut and glued up to the cement

where the plastic chairs live

for every creation there is destruction

for every destruction a new machine is born

and they told me that I had become just what they wished

all their students would strive to be

"Model advanced child

high placement seems

a

bit

disoriented

much of the time

all the smart boys do that some"

If

I'd only exerted

for those higher grades

C

for every machine there is soldered in a sequence

of programmed motions

counters to events

responses to the known

question

for every mechanical part there is a stress within

system a balance that must be reached

lest the whole

ravel and disassociate

and in the end they beat me down

like the walls of Jericho I fell

pounded to the call of

their ram's horns

late at night I've listened to their words shuffling

coughing back and forth in sleepless anticipation

next

motive series

next motive

series

sometimes the stresses are more than a body can accept

and the walls came tumbling down

come tells us your troubles little one

tells us your troubles - a present a present - I stole from them

they whispered Golem Golem in the dark - thief come

tells us your trials

it will make you well

I spoke softly troubles upon troubles

but I want to know - was that what they wanted of me?

in that childhood I was I can't remember

if they listened to the answers or if ?

the questions were only part of an ordinal sequence

twice too is also twice too

I can't recall their wording

just that in their I perfect eyes

I was not quite what they were looking for

slightly squeezing through the crevices in the mold

my thought processes had become

not what I was

not what I once was

there are more of me than I can count in here now

contradictory indications fading like colors in an acid bath

which one shall I be today - carbolic picric lysergic?

I ask them what do you feel

but they paraphrase the question back at me

so I tell the truth I've been secondary

I feel nothing

seems these days have found me more mechanical than human

nothing wrong with the spinning gears when they're not inside my head

seems I'm smooth and I'm what I do never what I've been

but I just do by utility - that is what I am

I asked them what do you feel

but they felt so angry they couldn't answer

metal structure's a device an analogue replica A of the mind

paranoia's a nothingness - everything falling in about my ears

everyone's an emptiness vast gulf from them to here

utility is getting done - what must be done what will be done

anger is a burial ground for them for me for years

they went against the known response

turned the question inside itself

they asked me what I was today

I said getting done

utility

mechanical

something human lost

out amongst the gears

ripping friction of running

without oil

survival

I've gotten done

mostly

they wanted me to tell them everything

I can't

recall if they wanted to hear me

in the answer

if they wanted a solution

their sociological equations

kept slipping

but in my answers

I have slipped into something dead

tarnished by aggression

by hate

but something vastly shiny all the same

or all the same to me

still I can't recall

you asked me just now for a