1. |
Stifled Poet
06:59
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He who would have his song in and of all things, Wrecked and tongue-tied; unable to utter what he would otherwise sing, Of a relentless aching; an un-clocked brooding on some certain theme, In dowered conventions his rapture swallowed; his will silenced in a vow.
In various angles from all sums of god proven geometries, He tries to hang this painting that will change the view from his window of dreams, But in failing even this his ego collapses into an amorphous gulf of agony, And think-dreaming maybe the spring will; maybe the spring will.
In studied measures he anguishes all things beyond his rhyme and reckon, Even of weather forecasts; disasters in the sun; things abandoned of sense, Making need from what he reviles to list as want, Making vice-versa in suffering beauty's unsung song; oh to wreck on that star.
The carcass of unsolicited meanings; yes; that weight on his musings, Anticipating each new day holds his ransom; but every evening a prisoner still, Is he not born of the lust of nothingness; can he not procreate his salvation's matron, Will he be tokened to some bitch fantasy for the sleep of his eons.
Yet still passing; a specter with the automatic poise of blank ceremony, His desperate longings; his muse milking song from another man’s throat, His indecipherable torment unable to reach that turning where grieving becomes healing, Where perhaps these longings; these trappings; would sound their bottom.
Unable to vouchsafe or quit his expansive collapsing into reason, He becomes the delicate hammer of his own aesthetic deconstruction, And this mythical fix grinds the rotting teeth of his dreams, And his dominant symbol of un-ableness becomes the chorus of his stifled song.
In each of his universal molecules he seeks the knife of his wound, Un-nurtured of his nurse indifferently to those who would hurt or heal, He snarls like a wild animal that has had his pain remembered, With gravity; alas overcoming the chronic; soft urgency of his wings.
So; in finding no language to unburden his silence of sorrows, Tears become the only medium to send these parked rivers onward, And so with no listener to hear this confession without the derision of ignorance, He will fast on his silence in wait for starvation’s mercy.
Feb. 08
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2. |
Peoples Politics
05:31
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You cast your vote like there’s nothing you don’t know, Don’t even know where you’ve been but you sure know how to tell me where to go, Complicit cancer of manipulation, The most recent polls verify capitulation, It makes me laugh till I have tears in my eyes, The way you oil your throat to swallow those lies, Some devil on the radio sounds like the voice of god, The same way Eden was lost to the land of Nod.
It’s serious business when we close those curtains to cast our vote, But in your case it’s more like not getting the joke, “We the people” yeah I carry my shame, original sin; I guess we’ll have to plagiarize the blame, Money don’t grow on trees but campaign donors do, But with your fetish for elephants you seem to like it when they fuck you, Instead of a heart transplant you get a blood transfusion, Instead of curing your amnesia you memorize your confusion.
You don’t have to be that dumb to be just dumb enough, More of a patsy than a victim when you fall prey to this bluff, A real critic of everything that you don’t quite understand, Another dutiful dupe of love it or leave it land, In the holy name of self righteousness; well you can't be wrong, But you don’t even pay enough attention to recognize yourself in this song, Here’s an unmixed-metaphor about the state of the nation, Truth has as many faces as there are people but freedom is not open to interpretation.
I had a dream that I was nailed to a T-bone steak, At fund-raising dinner that cost a thousand dollars a plate, By these creatures who carried their brains around in a bucket, If they got kicked over on the floor all they would say is “fuck it”, They asked where was my bucket and who I was voting for, I pointed to my head then said “not your man that’s for sure”, They were furious and they all started buzzing like a hive, I swear if I hadn’t of woke up I believe they would have eaten me alive.
Sept. 08
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3. |
Fertility Symbols
05:36
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A whore on the back of a castrated bull; the portents of the bullshit market, And when this cock and bull run out of bull and cock I guess we’ll just have to park it, The ethical ergonomics of a trust fund rapist in heat, We slammed the brakes and the whole world hit the wall that’s why they call it Wall Street.
Sometimes a virus just grows off the factotum-fat of its own mass, If you tack enough zeros on a zero it can look like a huge pile of cash, But the ones who play this game are not the ones who lose this game; they just lose their gain, Then were all left with our back to the Wall Street trying to cure the crazy with the insane.
It makes money to take money and you don’t even have to have it for them to take it, Just fill this out; strap this on; if you don’t like it; fake it, The world is the collateral on this more like debt lets call it a loan, And when we're done fatting off this market-money meat we’ll toss you the bill and the bone.
Who could begin to understand this delicate seduction, With more loopholes than a tax deduction, The lost dynamics of this big-bang whimper, A sin beyond what all grace can temper, This economic animal will have to be euthanized, His life savings a scuttled ship to be freely piratized, Locked into some fat-cat highest bidders lowball price, It’s a big enough pie but he ate your slice.
You knew she was a whore when you married her but she was so nubile you didn’t give a fuck, Yeah nothings gonna come between your world-be-damned I’m gonna make a buck, You say it’s not so simple but the fact is it’s an area you just painted gray, Because your only concern is who collects; you don’t give a fuck about who has to pay.
Escort this impotent bull to this barren virgin, See if they can give birth to a test-tube plastic surgeon, Down in new Wall Street South we can build a new palace, And in the garden we can erect a life-size phallus.
Oct. 08
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4. |
Middle Man
05:16
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The very light that trains your eye to see, Only shows what is not what could be, Up here in the pulpit it’s a party all the time, It’s just a way to make the unreasonable rhyme, It’s not personal you know it’s just business; man, It’s just the politics of an arrhythmic heartland, The back scratching of this suspect symbiosis, The drop-dead-dow of the diagnosis.
Divide and conquer statesman with a demographic memory, Tell them exactly who to be, Opinions; the hollow words of a parrot's talk, This educated ignorance only walks the walk, It’s a little more than a shame a little less than a scam, They don’t give a fuck if you give a damn, He turns every one into an us or them, He doesn’t want you to vote he wants you to vote for him.
You talk like you’d sell your very own soul, To give your very own devil control, So dogmatically duped you think you're the answer, Yeah you think you're the cure but you're really the cancer, There is no doubt left when you can be this right, Your man has a vision; you don’t even have hindsight, It’s a law of nature this unnatural crime, Trying to go in two directions at the same time.
I am a left handed middle man, All I do is the best we can, If I ran for president would you vote for me, If I could look could you see.
Oct. 08
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5. |
Elite Forces
04:22
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The body politic and the soulless soul of Ayn Rand, Mated and created the new-world-order superman, And so Atlas shit and we just shrugged, Looks like it’s the hardware that needs to be debugged.
It’s laissez-faire, If you're a billionaire, It’s Heaven cent, If you can't pay the rent, God knows what we’re gonna do, When the devil’s due comes due.
From an ivory tower you can't see the belly of the beast, We consider ourselves lucky to have a job washing dishes at the feast, You own the world and everyone else just rents, So you can crush the weak at their own expense.
It’s laissez-faire, If you're a billionaire, It’s Heaven cent, If you can't pay the rent, God knows what we’re gonna do, When the devil’s due comes due.
Greed never sated by a trap always bated with ambition's seeing-eye dog, You inhale pure oxygen and leave the rest choking on your smog, Everyone else just counting on their luck, While your profits come in hand over fist-fuck.
Uncle Sam props up his fallen, Capitalistic scarecrows, The barely walking now barely crawling, Their life savings now deposed, But when it comes to the milk and honey, You will not find your hors d’oeuvre, Banks full of useless money, Is about all you people deserve.
Oct. 08
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6. |
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In between notion and nonsense, The grudge of thought and action is so tense, Meaningless-mechanisms bleed oil into meaning’s milk, Traitors conspire with the ones of their ilk, Prolifically polite and profoundly petty, Anytime they draw near well my hands they get sweaty, Coffee-break conspiracies behind your back, But they never call themselves out for the spirit they lack.
This elemental configuration breeds empires-lush, And no pity for false finery caught in the crush, I’ve lived the petty plagues of my time, Dressed upon the blank tongue of rhyme, Submerged myself in the workings-deep, While the river's bride did so softly weep, With nothing but sorrow from crib to crypt, Drawn ink from blood trying to write this script.
I believe god must be a hypochondriac, The medicine of religion blessing the facts, For this razor's embrace I have suffered some change, But the tragedy of her beauty is the comedy of her brains, Her eroticism so politically energized, But her sexuality is spiritually circumcised, So women nurse the world while men try to milk it, And poets try to heal it while businessmen bilk it.
Ideas are born in the un-wedded womb, Just whores that whisper to their un-mated groom, The war of one and trickle-down throw-up, Left wondering when this new kingdom will show up, So we’re scattered beyond time’s recognition, And mathematical virgins are fed to this superstition, And the meaning of flight to those left on the ground, Is that a king is a kingdom once he is crowned.
The sky just gets bluer and this rain just gets wetter, Knowing it could be worse doesn’t make it any better, The thoughts in my head; well I guess they’re unthinkable, The water in this wine; well I guess it’s undrinkable, I get up in the morning; feel like I haven’t gone to bed, I day-dream the day away from my sleepy head, This cosmetic-cosmos draws me to its center, Its subatomic summer turned nuclear winter.
It’s just black and white pictures of a gray area, The gray-matter politics of hysteria, We see the world in our own context and code, And everything as pointless that doesn’t play to our ode, And in this fixed-orbit of gravity’s equation, The soul suffers the mind’s abstract abrasion, Between notion and nonsense we breathe on that brink, Turning what we don’t know into what we must think.
Oct. 07
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7. |
This Time Last Year
05:28
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If the universe was measured in inches per light years, I guess there would be no way to separate the tissues from the tears, Suffering is our travelogue whether we park or roam, The path of our pilgrimage becomes the habit of our home.
Dreams inextricable webbed into your memories, We wander the stripped guts of time.
There were no epiphanies just the milk of daily bread, Just the metered rhymes of the hauntings of my head, I’m a hundred years older than I was this time last year, I still no not where I am but
I feel I’m something near.
Nothingness divine mother-sensation’s plague, Till we slip the bonds of time-incognito.
If what I am is any reference to what I used to be, I guess all those little moments are still locked inside the mass of me, I take a mirror and hold it to the stars of the ever dreaming night, And the suffrage of time is nowhere there in sight.
The dead are the mute prompt of the living; will or no. The atrophy of years belies the quantum leap of days and draws the going from the go, The past gathers its worship like any sacred cow, But this time last year will always be now.
Sept. 08
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8. |
This Weary World
07:30
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The days run river with time’s casual urgency, Prolonging agonies; feeding dreams, If we could deconstruct the moment to the components of its making, Time is the predicament we would find ourselves in, All this losting is exhausting; we suffer each our own indentured Eden, Doomed and bound to find a healing quality in the very venom, For if there is to be a Heaven this Earth must be thy vessel, And it looks long; and long; upon the survey of this despair.
I can’t for the life of me, Look past the misery, Of this weary world.
Demographic dogma unbinds the spiritual synergy, Casting our souls to wander the wilderness alone, Breeding false gods to reckon our own device, And gorge our gut at the expense of our brother’s need, Huddled in a hush of electric-river-gospel, The binary-blueprint; the ego’s architect, Falling forward of the uncertain gravity of improvised empires, With the very flight that we seek determined by the scorched earth skies of our wrecked aviation.
I can’t for the life of me, Understand the stupidity, Of this weary world.
Deformed hulks of ancient engines litter the newborn works, The placenta of the receded flood echos birth agonies, With the glossolalia of infinite-decimal-babel, Lost civilizations in white noise transistor-transit, Just the background radiation of the frenetic friction of the motion, Fueled in its own exhaust; a market driven matrix of waste, Puzzling over the exhumed fossils of ancestral demise, Making mystic-tellings of fallen fortunes in lieu of the virgin’s currency.
I can’t for the life of me, Feel hope in the posterity, Of this weary world.
This chronic forecast is meaning’s barren tongue, Each broadband-docket a custom dialect of nonsense, Source-signal decoded at the end user's discreet demolition, This agency of baptism sanctifies the victim’s complicity, So what is born of mother love seeks its death in father lust, And this withered beauty gilded in the rust of obscene ages, Finds no savior worthy to the title of its rescue, Just the radio-wave-babel that ends up bickering amongst the stars.
I can’t for the death of me, Explain the immortality, Of this weary world.
Oct. 08
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9. |
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Individual eons of loneliness; suicidal spectators, Caressing the palpable nothingness as to arouse its somethingness and steel off with its appetite, Oh the burden of this desire could not be sustained by any without the ardent passion of indifference.
I could use the weatherman’s throat to discover the poison in my rainbow’s rain, No undisciplined metaphor but meaning beyond; meaning within; meaning undone, Nuclear-warhead of an artist; his thunder plagiarized.
Votaries for the age and ailment; cracked mandible; Freud’s fist, Oh I just give up; give in; give over (I do have love; do I not?), After I discovered time I hid it in the crying; sighing; lying; trying, trying, trying; dying bones of the clock.
And whatever this is that enters my wasting niche of being, The world’s lionized sham; is it myth in the matter that spills my guts thither, I find in this useful nonsense some tenuous component that renders my touch useless.
Is this not the motion of now; of all time; of any thing sensible of movement?, When did the solid seed of the water give drink to the stomach of the rain, And now can I refuse my thirst just to spite the vintage?
The gloating hypocrisy of death; an afterlife (yes) played out by some troupe of strangers, This wonder can't be reckoned: it is the wrecked and scattered oeuvre of god, And I am ruined amongst the ruins so to be captured inert.
So I am losting; disunioned; and precipitated into the drag of the routine weather, And I can observe all that used to be me and think (what? what?), But there is no why in this mandated philosophy; just the tautology of why not.
And so it will rain or it will not and I will get wet or pay off the weatherman, And this attribute of agony will give my ghost over to an honest medium, And she will sing the song of me to the listeners in the darkness un-timed.
Jan. 08
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10. |
Disasters in the Sun
05:31
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My mind goes blank and my body goes numb, Reconciling disasters in the sun, What it means to be human; to have a soul, To admit defeat to relinquish control, I study the afflatus of memories, To divine the joint where time turns into me, To turn my emptiness into something I can feel, To find one god damn thing that makes me real.
I’ve done my very best for goodness sakes, I’m not trying to opt out of my mistakes, I will smoke all of my deeds in the fire of my art, Stock all ambitions with the hurt in my heart, I remain a stranger in a familiar’s land, Just a servant of the little I understand, I wanna slake the thirst of my pride, But I can't divorce this apathy I took for bride.
The cosmology of my psychology, Scripted and ordained in my physiology, Placates my vision with the surrogate of sight, Where I can cull neither heat nor light, With all I’ve endured and all that will be, I can barely even remember me, Divining a life from this clock-paced routine, And this dumb dictionary can't tell me what it might mean.
From the corners of the cosmos to the meat of my mind, The intangible ghost of god to the heap of humankind, I wander in body and wonder in thought, Unlearn the petty dogmas that I have been taught, See the face of what’s real in things yet undone, Forgive disasters in the sun, Know the future from its sanction of waste, And the now is eternally chaste.
All dreamers will disappear into their darkest dreams, As the planets plot the clock of their unmanned schemes, A stoic scarecrow for the progeny of my pain, I will teach and preach the gospel of the rain, And so my children I come to you in naked soul, To bare the scar and star of the shattered whole, Shadow is proof the light feels no shame, All is just feed and seed for this godless game.
Sept. 08
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11. |
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I was tossed and reckoned upon the brutal breast of the sea, There was no land; no hope; nothing but the nothingness of me, Without a star for my steering I wallowed in the ocean’s empty arms, Student and victim of the night and all its morbid charms, Until the stench of death was the perfumed afterlife I could taste and savor, The wreck of Poseidon; I cursed him and sought no gods favor, Surrendered to my weakness and willingness to be lost at sea forevermore, But suddenly she was there with her golden hair; she lit this ship to shore.
I become locked and tortured by devices of my own design, A prisoner starving by my own bread this warden of mine, I became despised of my own untuned music of thought, In a rage of futures I yanked the ankles of the angels and I fought, Mercy’s deliberate-stranger I nursed on my misery’s wine, Till I was as barren and wasted as the bride of time, I was sick with a hunger but I could take no food to stomach that wasn’t hated, Till she fed me of the bread of her caring and I was sated.
With a bare sky that allowed more heat than this desert could endure, I wandered for memory’s ages finding no animal-cure, A mortal caught in the indifferent rush of the god’s fitful plans, No spit left for cursing only handfuls of these hot desert sands, Although only dying of thirst I felt already as dead as the host, This desert fallen in my path like some infinite ghost, Then she altered the very heavens in a cloud of rain from above, And she said water; I bring you water my love.
Sept. 08
For Rebecca
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12. |
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The poet in healing a broken tongue, Imbibes only shards of reflected light, Swallows shadows in full, Is engaged in only peripheral motion, Chemical-time the only throttle of mercy, Broken weather the crux of his apathy, The dogma of his distance barks up his moon, Fixed upon the silent stars of epic brooding.
The poet in healing a broken tongue, Is a stranger on every sensuous-bound-signal, Only read by the tarot of his dispatched soul, Ancient apothecaries offer no medicine for his agonies, He is reduced to the orbit of a satellite's agenda, Annex to his muse; her breast un-milked, Mired in the minutia of the agnostic nothingness, And tracing causalities of the brute force of habit.
The poet in healing a broken tongue, In the automata of his waking pulse, He finds a door to the wounded parts of his will, And a slow landscape of language ruins, To put ink to the bible of this noble-nothingness, The workings of woe for the empty stomach of dreaming, So the magnitude of the holy wreck of the center, Spills into the winter-pools of his being.
His own molecules of meaning gathered in folk-study, In the afterbirth of the big-bang’s anatomical agent, Crying of death; aching in agonies; splitting the atom of his bread and being, And all things that forfeit their orbit; fold and then fall to Earth, The soul stopping boredom of this work that only wounds what it tries to heal, And in keeping the emotional distance of artistic perspective, (But alas there is no bird with such wings for this relegated flight), Institutionalized-ecstasies; prescribe atrophic-agonies, The impatience of the cure is what causes this disease, So in the balm of epic silence his tongue ruminating sorrows, His soul is spectator to flesh and fiction’s holy-war, And the stop-gap junk of his flesh the battleground, Complete and cataloged worlds wait for the seed of his throat, Adams and Eves gestate in the wonder his undulating ego, Yet he never questions the logistics of his muse and her wing tossed birds, And so ravaged in these ministered medicines he lets loose his wounded words.
Dec. 07
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Michael McGuire Nashville, Tennessee
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