The dulldunce dunning day
of no day
noonday and nightday the same,
Flat and broken in my hands.
What to do!
What not to do lastday
Lastday alldone and notime
Notime to do what todo to do what?
Now what
Whatnow in the last spaces
of the last milliseconds of the lastnight
oozing out
in the flatbed of (your bed is how you make it) life.
This is a year like all the others
When it happened and didn’t
Remained the same but not the self-same.
Yea though I walk thru the valley
the valley of not self same
Yea, selves same
Yea though I walk thru—
and lo and behold
It cometh and passeth
the Deaths and the Passions.
Themselves
not the same yet selfsame
Ghosts of fleetfoot feelings
Auras mists echoes disremembered disembodied
Only primitive traces disengaged
sunk in the buried innards of gutflesh
pulsing, ticking, the pushes of lusts.
Competitions between multifarious selves
vicious haggling tearing screeching over
the notime notleft
I no feel.
Fearful think-nothing barred flatbed life
No life no time as the last moments
continue deadly in their path
Obliterating the year wherein I am late come
I’ve come too late too soon.
No leverage left when it’s the end.
Leverage levered deadend. Fini.
The finality of a meager mortality,
cancel it in the morning.
Mortality dies in notime with nocome.
Comely, come to me.
Baby, wipe away my fears.
Baby, take me in your tears.
Hold me. Let me forget how meek I can get.
Bury me now in your lifeblood. Transfuse my weak head.
Raise me! Praise me!
Conjure me from the dead!
Instead.
Instead it’s the deaddog no time left for unpopular romance-
Instead it’s the cometime for terror.
Dulldead & rancid
Notime to repair notime to despair No. Notime.
Quite honestly, I no feel no care no feelcare.
Hosanna, nofeel.
Glory to God on the highest for the gift of nofeel!
Lamb of God who takest away the sins of feeling
Peccata Mundi
He who removes the sin of the guilt of mortality.
Glory Glory Glory Endtime Endyear.
Reunited with newtime in the newworld
A New Year Now Time Now Come
Sunk into chance my mortal future inscribed
Neatly, last year I already died.
Resurrection into the surety of the rational mystical
Immeasurably impossible monumentous measure
of guilty times of no feel no time no come mortality
for another
3 6 5.
Margaret Yard, foremost a poet and lyricist, is also a psychoanalyst, sociologist and advanced practice clinician. She is a contributor to the poetry collectives And Then and Tamarind, and is the author of two chapbooks, Bloodrush/Birthroot and History of Silence.