Tag Archives: Procrastination

“They Told Me Often”

“They Told Me Often”

They told me often, always boisterous, boasting loudly, nights
Would come when I would feel the season’s counterfeits rally round
Ten thousand thousand fresh laconic smiles, duly marinating in their sweet obscenities while chasing tails, and bound
For fiscal glory, yes! I knew they knew it could not last, nor might
Not, could not more than minutes in an icecube’s stand, this half hour, or that,…and yet…
They always raise their fists on high, and swear to God
despite their losses surely, yes, they’d do it all again and lay in flight
Their life’s breath’s coin conjoined where once their wit was hatched to stay
The course and never once betray or even reconsider whom or what they are with no regrets.
Their joy is in the print and watermarks and all that shredding….No! By God! They that were sincere are sweating, and all those shirts will never dry. Standards to the clan, they are,and even after desperate stares
Surround their own deductions, loopholes, distorted egos all aware
They scribble texts, graffitied mountain tailings, organs failing, seal their space:
“A hand! Extend a hand” they cry, “and deal the cards again for as we live
We die together… “Well, the hell you say! In the Fed we trust; the government forgives,
for goodness sake!”:…Mae West my friend, she’ll tell ya bluntly: “…goodness’s got nothin’ to do with it!”

“Paralysed”

Tretjakovka_small_2

“Paralysed”

Paralysed. The thousand tares and sweet affairs
That leave me free to seek the lowest ebb
Of things to do in place of taking steps
To put what must be done to action; so many snares
Distract the eyes from what intentions are
To something less productive; yes! but one last kiss—
Procrastination’s always there—the prize without the risk.
And who’s to know if what’s been planned’s replaced by what so far
Favours fortunes to the whore, the comforts of a song, or one more peek
Through some holy hook, a slight diversion in the day to while away the hours?
Where’s the witness to the tragedy of the shadow of the light gone sour?
“What’s the use?” he’s heard to say as in the dust he seeks
Another route to something more than the rhythm and the beat
Of phatic sweets in favour of smoother roads and richer streets.

…painting by Olga Chernysheva, Tretjakovka, 2002…

“Demonstratives”

Anglo

“Demonstratives”

Demonstratives, egregious adjectives salute me on the street.
The “while” of all my hours. The ëgo you may say gains admittance to my ear
And raises spectres in the gathering rusts of any fiscal year
Of clouds and storms, the noxious winters on all fronts. Anxious fleets
Of bankrupt publicans working seas of mitigating spreadsheets―
“Procrastination,” someone mentions, “just keep talking,”―old debates
Clabber easily where genocide of currencies are sanctioned, openly; discrete
Parleys-in-Council. Morganatic masses melt to puddles in polar streets
While doctors spin from pulpits, “Foul! No matter what our fate!”
And we’ll all drown as when emerging from an ancient a Celtic haze,
Roman rhetoric melding to Norman lists of deficits put to page
Point for point their goals around the glory of taxes and invasion in the late
Night nauseating prattle of the screen. But no place to hide in the latter days
Of bold correction in the Saxon markets, fickle futures that simply fade away.

“Procrastination’s Victims”

Sara Zin

“Procrastination’s Victims”

Procrastination’s victims centre on the Why?
Infinities bury actions in prolixity:
The finite Who? spawns urgency
That as the application of a spice, advises
Seconds to become minutes in the hours of When? fired by
The sparks of What? and Where? whose emergencies
Stabilize in the clouds of How? Ingredients brew exigencies
In the Milky Way to seal a recipe that makes the whole thing fly.
As balances are sabotaged, the thought, the contemplated action
Grows moot in direct proportion to ladybugs of quality
And quantity amassed as distraction. The antidote, antipathy
To all those eyes; the override of satisfaction
In collusion with fervour for sugar plums and fairies; that lethal kiss
To what seems to be in favour of exactly what it is.

…art by Sara Zin,,,

“With Mild Concession”

Sun1

“With Mild Concession”

With mild concession, I consign myself
To oblivion in the bleaching hours, the heat
On one, the rain the other morning and repeat
In each of several sultry summer days. The shelf
Is dusty, floors are masked with soiled à meld
From weeks of traffic and debris, conceit
Upon the crowns of crass procrastination and defeat
And even neo-lethal in princpio moltissimo if held
For more than seconds in the fray and din that spells
Desire or want or all that we are wont to hedge the streets
Of our unequalled Americo-Euro afternoons that lead to night.
Oh, I would have it differently, indifferent to the pattern
That I bear witness and allegiance to in virtual existence.
But decades after the discovery, I’ve more common sense
Than to suppose that there is any real escape; tight
The bonds and tighter still addiction to nocturnal lanterns.

Simplicities1