The logical prospect
And mocks the tolerance of Jesus:
– the shopkeeper is not correct that
– the customer is always correct because
Some things are binaries
Enforced by time
Now as certain as the presence
Of cianide in your wineglass, or not:
The bed is shat (1) or not shat (0)
But one cannot unshit the bed.
It is or it is not
God: I am what I am.
I am, or I am not.
Am I both? To different people,
But one is wrong.
Or we might say, less right;
If you are 49% right and I
Gormless self-abyssing am 51% right
Then we are vectors, you and I,
One approaching the state of being alive,
And the other racing into death,
In the same way that all pretty girls
Start out as tens
And then work backward by mutation burden
( ) A schizoid smile
( ) Club feet and left-handed
( ) Easy no self-esteem lay
( ) IBS and Unitarianism
Or all days begin full of potential
Later siphoned away by vampiric leeches:
Jobs, parents, beggars, the smashed windshield you discover when late for an appointment
(In itself a disappointment, since what was represented on the circular was not actual.)
The bed is shat by the hand of time
It has been done, and cannot be undone
This is punishment itself so none will heed
Running to the arms of distraction.
The bed is shat and cannot be unshat
All you can do is bundle up the binary failure
And replace it with white sheets —
We wonder, are they the ones or zeroes?