Useless Spinning

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Shane Driscoll

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The moon, the clock, the dream, and the window
Our inner distance constricted
Applications of perfection lost in wonderful focus
Blaring and discordant colors
Too dazzling to break the nerve
Are all together welcome
Pure and loathsome intrusions of character
Help the acute anger melt to indifference
My self, like the fleeting anecdote of some obscure hell, is a true and weighty dream
A stone orchid with granite petals
Breaking against the lost, useless spinning of days
When time begets time begets time
But what if I forget
What if I forget to hold the true monochrome gaze of
The moon, the clock, the dream, and the window
The amorphous anxieties of our artificial bodies
Moving with the spontaneity of dance
All the while, staring emphatically into the anticipating nothing
Our uncomfortable, premonitory dread of the moon, the clock, the dream, and the window
We ask the powerfully grotesque
Suffused with morbid visions
To offer us our tolerably original ideas
Divided from the rest
Fragile in the vast, inky blackness of disordered fantasia
Our creaking bones are devoured from within
Now
Marred by the stigmata of purpose
We, few, are doomed to live our lives in circles

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