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Michael McGuire
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Between Notion and Nonsense
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.
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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.
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