Michael McGuire Telling Time By Clock
TELLING TIME BY CLOCK
© Electric Babylon Music Author: M.M.
The chisel on the stone, inevitability; the ghost that haunts the bone,
and horizons lit of a false dawn, slowly sink back into the patient
night, the burden loosely falling from the back of the dawn.
The scheduled feedings of the day, directions in themselves being the
way, and the traffic moves to the stoic rhythm, of a god on narcotics
manmade plan, to steal the life from the dead motions dream.
The circle of birth surrounded by, the pain of death and the wondering
why, time is a part of the elemental bliss, but the clock cant tell what
time it is.
Desire and the knowing of the river, does the sea deposit or deliver,
with astral meanings unread by man, the stars clock and climb the
heavens, until the innate doom defines the soul of the song.
Driven by the numbers painted face, we cant tell our time from our
place, and the world is a graveyard for the dust of the universe, the
electric dust of our making, the charged and woeful being of our flesh.
Turned an ugly duckling into an ugly swan, measured here and now not
the great beyond, time is a part of the elemental bliss, but the clock
cant tell what time it is.
We bleed not by measure but by blood, all rivers run lost in the loose
milk of the flood.
Now; is all time set for the mutiny of the motion, in the gravity of daily
dogma divided; distended, in daily bread actualized and focused in the
nucleus of being, and then stultified in this telling time by clock, until
the welcoming of the worlds end breaks this rhetorical rhythm, and the
clockmaker proves to be a dream taker, so god’s own tic and toc and
real rhythm by rhyme take the dance, and the work of day labor is so;
graced by the work of ages.
We should be telling time by star, living time by kiss and scar, time is a
part of the elemental bliss, but the clock cant tell what time it is.
sept. 07