1. |
Sciamachy
05:05
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I am this shadow; I was born of this fight,
But my dark places teach the beauty of light,
The night is overripe and the enemy grows younger,
Hope is a demon sent to nourish my hunger,
Which would I rather suffer surrender or defeat,
I would claim a victory from a dead-heat,
But I’ll never be a servant you’ll have to make me a slave,
Let this fight take the fighter to the grave.
And is it this,
Oh I can’t live with this,
And is this it,
How can I live like this.
Phantom howls make me feel like a desperate dove,
Waiting for that push to become that inevitable shove,
As my memories they mutate to mythologies,
And my defenses feel like apologies,
Till I don’t know if I want or wish or believe or think,
I just know my psyche is too psyched to sync,
I’m an animal so I move toward my next meal,
You're a gentle killer but you can still count on the kill.
And is it this,
Oh I can’t live with this,
And is this it,
How can I live like this.
You are the bread between wanting and waiting,
The god of destroying what I am creating,
A abstract victim of the evanescent now,
And I can’t tell the why from the how,
As I figure by fury I’m slowly undone by days,
And wearied of the world and its drop dead ways,
But I suppose this emptiness will have to do,
Because if I’m not the revolution than neither or you.
I draw new lines,
As you erase me,
The ghost of my signs,
Will replace me.
March 14
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2. |
Point B
04:14
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The shattered windows of a glass house,
The docile dogma of a miracle-mouse,
It’s easy to get lost when you're born there,
Make a home of this nubile nowhere,
But solving the time it never gets old,
For the ones who are born to believe what they’er told,
The right side or the left side or the suicide,
Knock on god’s door with a pagan-pride.
Moving in context,
Getting to point B is pointless,
Staying in context,
The view from point A is wondrous.
Point B is pointless,
Point A is jointless,
Live in the center,
Wait out the winter,
False-gods will break you,
To devils they’ll make you,
The whole of this scam,
I was from I am.
Moving in context,
Getting to point B is pointless,
Staying in context,
The view from point A is wondrous.
Democracy-doctors they know just what to do,
In the good old deaf, blind and blue,
And it’s here that the black-moon-poets arrive,
With their musings a few soldiers survive,
Time is nature’s subconscious dreaming,
The atomic-clock of evolutionary scheming,
How can our flesh be already there,
As our bones grow to dust to seed the next nowhere.
Feb. 14
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3. |
Mass Market
05:17
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Take the light and blind it,
And feed it to the night,
Take your mass and bind it,
To the market-rite,
Come and share my fiction,
Dress the placebo down,
Prop for my addiction,
A kingdom for my crown.
Network-narcosis,
Take your blood-work,
To the mouth of the river.
All that means and matters,
All that could be yours,
When this symbol shatters,
Your poisons taint your cures,
The zero-mass of dreaming,
For the need you never had,
The broadband-doctors streaming,
The audience so sad.
Mass market ghost,
The season of your soul,
Sub-atomic sabotage.
If it all just falls to this,
Thought is a god,
I just buy into the beauty,
Thought is a god.
Feb. 14
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4. |
Transitional Object
03:42
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Paintings in the memory depot of all that is not me,
I build myself in piece by pieces from what I’ll never be,
And if I was unborn again and fell to Eden’s trap,
I’d play for the dead-stop again till I could find time on the map.
Embracing the never-ness of it all; I plot my new-nowheres,
To notarize a metaphysic of reality to butcher mankind’s affairs,
And crawl out of these theological slums to the science of the soul,
To put the acts of ages aching into my unknown role.
Conceptualizing the moment and imagining the enemy,
Within my own barbaric infrastructure I’m desperate to be free,
When your authority lies in its resolution of dust,
Over your petty bones I will slake this spiritual lust.
March 14
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5. |
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You cannot trust your feelings to do anything but feel,
But you can always trust reality to seem somewhat less than real.
Time seems to be in remote control of your very being,
A blind arbiter of the timeless vision you're busy not seeing,
And if I could break to very soul-gut of my sorrow,
Then maybe I could render this sense to the tragedies of tomorrow,
And that is just the bitter pharmacy of the truth revealed,
You are wounded with the same wisdom with which you are never healed.
Actions faults; the mere sum of every x-factor that you don’t know,
Thus blame serves as scapegoat; a virgin in a volcano,
The hurt pays homage to what the moment could have meant,
And those coins deposited on the eyes could have been better spent,
The hope that bribes the better days may falsify the hopeless ones,
With an army of servile daughters and idolatrous sons,
Until the slow torture of servitude degrades the self of life,
And then even a poet’s sleep will start dreaming on the knife.
In the correspondence of your mind and the working-world,
The disconnect is proportioned to the way your thoughts are twirled,
And the emotional-earthquake that can shake your soul’s ghost-city,
Can leave such ruins you cannot tell sorrow from self-pity,
Your memory prognosticates your future from its grave,
So to keep from being a victim of change you become a routine-slave,
We so often treat the moment’s urge with our complacency,
That we never realize this is the way time tailors tragedy.
April 14
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6. |
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I take you as the mode of your expression,
The way I take time as a venue of my being,
The way I write a song of these things,
And meaning is just the widow of a rhyme-scheme,
My thoughts they are gods yours seem like beekeepers,
Yet every time I speak it’s a rhetorical suicide.
You are standing in my light and that is how I know,
That you are just the grave of a shadow,
The Earth is a factory of seed just watch the gods grow,
The atomic-spin of your entangled going will never let you go,
If I am a standard audience you are just a dumb-show,
How could the war of my higher self leave me this low.
I ponder and I wonder at the shape of your ghost,
Does time eat your meals the way it feeds my hungers,
All I know is I’m loaded with your covert longings,
I am a self portrait worked by some abstract other,
Oh this is the system of me when the power grid groans,
I don’t know how to say you; how to field the dogma of you.
I haul the burdens of the river-ready thru this revealed reality,
Thru every trick of timing; thru every triviality,
You are the face and figure of my relentless mortality,
The little god-stop of nature’s vicious modality,
Great chunks of arctic-ice fall to this psychic-brutality,
I am the beast of you by the fault of commonality.
I can only talk to you (I don’t know what to say to you)
I can not look at you (I can only see thru you)
I live on a lost world.
June 14
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7. |
The Immediate Future
07:05
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The intangible within the reach of flesh,
Time palpitates, mutates and dissolves,
His codependent members and memories,
Force life to its psychosomatic pace.
I am a god-thought, an imperfect absolute,
Defined and divined in this boundary situation,
There is another me; waiting in his exit agonies,
His metaphysical infrastructure of quantum-leaps and eternities.
I don’t know what it will be only that it will be,
The stage the imagination uses to act out being free,
Vision that always swallows your eyes but never lets you see,
Somewhere in between being and becoming I will always be.
Is this the world of the god that has died or the one not yet born,
If it’s what I think it is it can’t be what I thought it was,
A rider between exits in wonder of the make of me,
Trying in vain to capture some river-moment’s bliss.
What I thought was the world was just a loop and a glitch,
Just some staggered being lost in the soft-focus of the hardware,
Intangible destinations, evaporating destinies, and dreamscape.
Moment measures moment till the clocks empty eternity.
Sept. 14
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8. |
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As the static masses itch; the Earth engine is warming for war,
This ain't-seen-nothing-yet-bias lubricates the gold mine,
Don’t know how to say what all that silence just lets be,
We are the something always and only becoming what we’ll never be,
Never so sure that now is happening or if it did in the when,
Rust and fermentation; river-ready and always waiting like a virus.
This perpetual aching is of itself some kind of shadow-healing,
The children of the revolution are now the servants of sundown,
Am I a oneness that defies all deities by my own light’s mercy,
I feel I could take this fortress down by the sheer weight of the wanted,
But time snakes thru wanting and waiting like it’s the new Eden,
And leaves us somewhere that is never quite here and almost there.
May 14
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9. |
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The unreconciled wandering,
The intrinsic penance of motion,
Could the miracle-morning be,
The song of the unconscious ocean,
Balking between waiting and wanting,
The losting; a rouge destination,
The unspent money by motor,
And the cost of the computation,
Where are we at and are; were and when,
Blessing all these facts with a taste of fiction,
And this serpent entwines with your soul,
Your actions bribed by emotional friction,
With poetry’s attempt to articulate the wordless world,
Future-fueled by your memory,
You know more than you know how to say,
Till your traveler's tongue becomes your enemy.
The past was not,
The future won’t be,
The moment never is.
I have nothing but endless want,
A day is just a waste of sunlight to me,
And desire empties the self,
To its vehicle of deliverance,
Left to the pure and perfect rage of the now,
These moments mired in tedious wonders,
But then there are spirit moments and god building,
Then my mind fidgets to the double-digits,
And I break to passive-pastimes,
And my will seems to never find its way,
I go off topic in the fatigue of fragmentation,
Then I am not father to the little I know,
But more child to the much I don’t,
Then I just want something to need me,
Because I don’t want to feel like I’m just now and nothing,
I want to cast a shadow; be an asymptote edge.
I just don’t want anything; I want everything,
I end up so losting I’m wondering where is now,
Junked by the false-horizon of a systemic sunset,
I suffer distances both great and small,
First person narrative of third person law,
The season’s alterity implies both its coming and going,
Drawn on by a whispering light go the mantic-meanings,
Yet I don’t believe in dreams but I believe in dreamers,
But the very reason you have to believe in it is it’s not true,
A vessel of greatness will succumb to its own dark-ridings,
With the binary logic of past and future,
Figuring and forging the non-linear now,
As wireless wonders trigger the heavens and heal the healers,
The ubiquitous-mainstream-howling sets the clock,
So in aspirations to transcend all travels,
I have found love is the only sustaining grace.
Where you come from,
Subtracted by where you’er going,
Will tell you where you are.
April 14
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10. |
Moments With Her
08:10
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She has become the only song left in my soul,
The only way my incomplete being can make its whole,
Moments with her.
I am lost by the clock if I be not found in her arms,
I am collector and connoisseur of her endless charms,
Moments with her.
I was there when she invented time and stopped it,
I had all the baggage of eternity and I just dropped it,
Moments with her.
The world’s desolation becomes the field of deliverance,
My ambitions a toy and thing of indifference,
Moments with her.
She is reified wonder; when I have been tuned to static,
She is my freestyle agenda when the world seems automatic,
I don’t know what love is if not the slogan of her kiss,
And her sweet reasonings that keep me from my own abyss,
She’s my little punk-rock-princess straddling the corpse of her victim,
Thrashing her beautiful golden hair like a whip to the back of the system,
From my being to my bones she lights the points of contact,
Keeps me to the front lines in my self-surviving combat,
If I could live a thousand ages to taste a thousand lips,
I could have no greater role if I surveyed a thousand scripts.
You see I’ve tried time after time to say how much I love her,
Only to sing my praise in vain because each day I think more of her.
July 14
For Rebecca
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11. |
Process Apocalypse
07:38
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We don’t bloom until we blossom we bloom until we rot,
Soldiers of the weather and the sum of what we’er not,
A pack of restless energy flown in from the sun,
The parcel of a process apocalypse that is never done.
Stoke our animal-engines with the sex of survival.
Discarded divinities haunt the halls of our arrival,
Into this kitchen of soft-chefs where the thought is what it thinks,
All the patrons are drinking their wounds and nursing their drinks,
Lamenting that every reason happens for a thing,
The moment; the mere junk of what the next may bring,
So we make a bid to buy the ruins of a will that once was free,
Because we’er sold on some idea of what just has to be.
This thought pollution finds its way to the body politic,
The systematic-symptom of a system that is sick,
And the days are long on labour and the nights are short on sleep,
The moments are a plea-bargain you cannot catch or keep,
Endless absurdities that compliment the reach of the absurd,
Junkyard mythologies that flay the flesh off of the word,
Alive by mere survival we go wandering electric-wastelands,
Thinking we can turn these busy ruins into gracelands.
Lost because understanding is a destination with bad directions,
So we rent this dogmatic-dystopia with our emotional insurrections,
The ambit of pharmaceutical contentment will serve causality and cause,
Each his own stone to roll and guiltier than the laws,
And our daily-distortions leave their shadows like landscaped litter,
We’d rather die by the poison because the cure is so bitter,
A thousand ways to self-destruct or build your better days,
Nowhere is a straight star-tracker when you’ve lost all other ways.
Vested in the token bitch of change we run this routine tragedy,
The bliss turns into a blister and we take the rap for a rhapsody,
Between the ready and the ruin the blood-works and river-runs,
The masses are massacred by the choice of the chosen ones.
April 14
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12. |
Omega Point
05:55
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With complexity as the bait of transcendence,
From light to light we gather the silent calling,
For to simplify our souls to the binary being,
Unto an unreconciled oneness of wonder and woe,
And so we think because it’s moving that it’s going,
And we think because we’er thinking that we’er knowing.
Chronos rules with a medicinal indifference,
As we jetty to omega-point with an alpha-grace,
The soul-being of this physical despot of desire,
Suns that devour their planets in a hot memory,
And this is a promised land to a waste land,
And this is the crawling away from the last stand.
Oh am; I oh are we the sum of this servitude’s shame,
And will we find our gods broken on the market rocks,
Of alters and egos we broadcast the stranger’s dialogue,
To make our insides hurt with the promise of all,
And then to fall upon the prop of which this direction is leading,
And then to feast upon the blood of this vampire’s scheduled bleeding.
It is a revelation always arriving,
It is the copulation of merely surviving,
The manifestation of complete emptiness,
The stark liberation of our holiness,
A pure complication of the river-ready,
A mean obligation to its endless eddy,
A bleak fascination with dark machine,
A mortal laceration of what divine could mean.
May 14
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Michael McGuire Nashville, Tennessee
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