Decision Poem

Yes No
No Yes
No Yes
Yes No

No Yes
Yes No
No Yes
Yes No

Yes No
No Yes
No Way
Okay

*

Ah! Yes
Oh! No
Not quite
Just right
I can't
I can
I won't
I will

tempers fuse it
I'm happy 'bout it
I'll have to face it
I'll just deny it

strangers meeting
I know you
your face is familiar
far away

lies are truth
and truth is lies
How to be decisive
when there's no substance?

I have no time
To say I am
Please accept my apologies
late again!

*

No no no no no no no no no no no
New new new new new new new new new
blue blue blue blue blue blue
Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes
l'oiseaux comprend l'avenue du choix a bird is a choir in new mud
your reason is my reason as such as a bird singes wing is a glue fortunate your hypothetically unreasonable

I've gone you've gone we've gone everyone isn't here
they are here right here in the flesh you can touch their flesh
and nothing disappears
cars scudding at midnight
a birds flight canoed by an Internet our flavour of paint
you're right I'm right here right here
Crashing like Gates

Mistake? I never took avenues to seed a truth
where truisms are anywhere nearer than now
Whose expectation was a kaleidoscope? Haven't
cervix esperanto illusive mime? Since when should
I explain that poetry is a scene to gather all other
scenes and provide the tinge that scraps the

whole out of all things? Une foret?


*

objet objet objet stars stars stars objet objet objet stars stars stars

I cannot finish this poem not because words are merely emblems rather than a scrutiny of post modern culture. I am an author so I am not here, you must be the author unless the words found their own way onto this representation of a page. I refuse to subdivide authors. I haven't the time nor the money nor the inclination. I would like to finish this poem but time is a reason in its self.

Time isn't money, but it is motion if it is anything... which it probably isn't, unless you are a devout Solipsist. The difficulty with changes is they are not measurable, however they are existent. I'm hoping that another bank doesn't crash like in US so time can become more lucid in the sense of freer interpretations and less intrinsicness.

Aloofness to time or "timewards", is now pertinent but exteriority isn't a mechanism without the dial that frees the face like a moon that frees the butt or a sun that frees the theatricality of global warming. My face falls on the clock face yet my rhythm and the rhythm of time are keeled to a Sun in winter and the Moon in Summer. Our quantization is expedient and parallel yet faces flow like cigarette smoke between the synopsis of dials handing the fractured fixity of minds worried to paralysis.

Sex is scary, to all of us fuckers if we're honest. Time can indicate the brevity of sexual relations, child rearing old age (past it) and death (in the breeze). Time was never an indication of complex systems, nor their raison d'etre, failure or success, where did this synonymy between time and the measurement of money occur from? Time is now an indication of health and sexual vigour. I can feel the fur slip between the numbers of its ever increasing accuracy the wolf at the door the rat in the sewer the cat on the mat the snake grating its poison on the door.

If any slippage were indicated, an evocation of transience and tranquility would be its opposition, a quiet meditative aloofness that phones capitalism and says "enough is enough - fuck off!". And from this distance we could observe late-capitalism, delirious and chaotic, melt down into a form that proved an essence was not the seed that we should measure but something that is blunt, non-incisive occurring because it occurs and however, we choose to alter it, we will not change the fact that it (us, our societies, cultures) are there because we are here.

A numbness at the cursing of over-capitalist societies, is no longer de rigueur. You can feel the bones wending, stirring vocalising a new amalgam of humanity and the market place. I long for the day that my face will sit timely and appealingly upon the dial of a clock and, time becomes a whimsy for those with time on their hands or those who must enquire or create. And when a lover sits upon times hands draped in flowing robes, I shall celebrate by writing my thoughts and feelings poetically, without disruptive anxiety about time and money.