The Trouble With That ‘Year Zero’ Idea

We’re beginning to require new clichés;
The manifestos don’t quite cut it, the world is wise and stupid.
I stroll between crises expecting better, for whatever reasons,
And all those soft beyonds, all these mellow miseries,
Everything on every screen that kind of amounts to a disgrace in waiting.          Are around, and about,
And slink like velvet daydreams through infinite judgement
In the Picasso-blue peace of a miscarried Spring.

Observation is done and Participation is dusted,
If we could communicate we’d soon die of either sex or boredom.                           The conspiracies implicit in just hanging out
Bubble up in the seditious strains of the devastated day
When doubt is felt finally without ‘doubt’
And there is everything, but everything, still left for us to say.

But anyway, there’s another poem. And                                                              What shall remain to stand by itself?
Dylan: “Two verses and a chorus. Five times.”