Michael McGuire Between Notion And Nonsense
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 rivers 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 razors 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 unmated 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 from my sleepy head, this cosmetic cosmos draws
me to it’s center, it’s 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 breath on that brink,
turning what we don’t know into what we must think.
