Michael McGuire Interpretation Of The Weather
INTERPRETATION OF THE WEATHER
Individual eons of loneliness; suicidal spectators, caressing the
palpable nothingness as to arouse it’s somethingness and steel off
with it’s 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; Fraud’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 cant 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.
