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Michael McGuire
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Interpretation of the Weather
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,
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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.
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