Stagnant
poem
Night moves up against the window,
Eyes dull, and hours pass
Quiet in the artificial light.
The world’s before you on the screen
But nothing speaks —
Just the keen
Of devices counting down
The numbers till their arbitrary end
And then you’ll beg and plead to make amends
And perhaps their metal minds will condescend
To live another day,
Never mind that then.
So night crawls on into the morning
Heralded by sullen headache warning
But the silence is complete,
Insipid couplets of deceit
And the battered muse cries
Why can’t you be more honest
In your lies?
They are a world on which the glass is seldom lifted
Where between the dusty streets is daily drifted
The dreck of typed and retyped villanelles
And in this world is nothing left to sell.
It’s just as well;
Here’s morning, pain, and Advils,
Bank statements and the angels
Crowding thick between the ground and winter sky:
Something dies,
Lies rotting at your hand
And is reborn,
Before you ever
Could gather and discard the time to mourn.




"The world’s before you on the screen
But nothing speaks —
Just the keen
Of devices counting down
The numbers till their arbitrary end..."
Very much how I view our modern New Year observances. Really enjoyed this one, Iris.
This made me think of Cocteau's famous line "Je suis un mensonge qui dit toujours la vérité." (at least it's attributed to him):
"Why can’t you be more honest/In your lies?"