*unfailing clockwork come,
no surcease tendered from its
onerous, regulated,
on-time scheduled,
yet, untimely demands
arise to serve,
serve the sentence,
the sentence of
"out, out,"
whether candle or spot,
but there be no out,
damnable or otherwise
flailing words,
uttered no matter how,
the burden of the inexorable
is freshened daily,
yet horribly unchanged
failing words,
dent not the injustice of,
the condemnation of,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
for if the play's the thing,
this thing,
on the morrow,
performed eight times a week,
the sound and the fury
of applause fading,
a chiming of intermission ending,
the sets struck,
yet the tick of tomorrow,
is but the tock,
the switch off
of today
that
Doesn't Work
the script, well memorized,
it's mastery demands perfunctory performance,
and
an ending that sates,
but playwright,
none provides,
his woeful signature
his pas de coup,
signifying
that tomorrow returns faithfully,
desirious of its unfulfilled dissatisfaction,
for it kens none other
though calling out,
"out, out,"
but there be no out*
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
*unfailing clockwork come,
no surcease tendered from its
onerous, regulated,
on-time scheduled,
yet, untimely demands
arise to serve,
serve the sentence,
the sentence of
"out, out,"
whether candle or spot,
but there be no out,
damnable or otherwise
flailing words,
uttered no matter how,
the burden of the inexorable
is freshened daily,
yet horribly unchanged
failing words,
dent not the injustice of,
the condemnation of,
tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
for if the play's the thing,
this thing,
on the morrow,
performed eight times a week,
the sound and the fury
of applause fading,
a chiming of intermission ending,
the sets struck,
yet the tick of tomorrow,
is but the tock,
the switch off
of today
that
Doesn't Work
the script, well memorized,
it's mastery demands perfunctory performance,
and
an ending that sates,
but playwright,
none provides,
his woeful signature
his pas de coup,
signifying
that tomorrow returns faithfully,
desirious of its unfulfilled dissatisfaction,
for it kens none other
though calling out,
"out, out,"
but there be no out*
riffing on
Macbeth’s short soliloquy in
Act V, scene v:
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
(V.v.18–27)
