Michael McGuire Clocks
CLOCKS
© Electric Babylon Music Author: M.M.
Born into motion set sail against the sky, inspiration is slowed down to
the wink of an eye, we travel east and west in the same step, the
distance of our dreams distort in this strange effect, time plays
favorites here but there’s no way to know it, age is in motion only the
clock doesn’t show it, action moves so slowly but turns into memory so
fast, memory clings to the moment but the moments never last, move
me from the inside cast against the stoney ghost, between the density
of experience and memory; memory weighs the most, clocks are little
liars and full of shameless ambition, and just like knowledge have no
respect for intuition, the fall doesn’t look as fast at the scene of the
descent, but purpose falls to pieces and becomes a victim of it’s own
intent, everything that has been done still lacks for what can never be,
the pearly gates of perfection have a profound lack of sympathy, the
shortest distance between two points is being there, and a circle is the
only route for those who cant afford the fare, till we finally reach that
perfect speed that cast the light, like the stillness of a stagnant pool
reflects in the night, train of thought moves slowly thru time, point of
reference fixed forever in this rhyme, all beauty is in a transition of
indifferent decay, you cant rightly judge today until tomorrows had it’s
say, the contemporary rag of pain polishes some antique pleasure, a
calculated risk pays off with a morsel to small to measure, even after
all hope is lost desire still remains, it’s a matter of time but the clock
just complains, every second of blind faith is spent tempting fate, it’s
never to soon to always be to late, but there’s a beggars fortune at the
end of every rainbow, and on the dance floor of the rain dance their
waiting for the rain to show, the past is gone all we’ve got left is the
future now, but the slippery hands of the clock cannot hold this vow,
the atoms of time make up the parts of the clock, it’s sardonic voice
repeats the nonsense of tic tock, life in motion in it’s dust cloud fame,
it begins in wonder and it ends the same, the thunder is the void as it
clears it’s throat, the summer returns to the sky for it’s winter coat, a
fence row marks the boundary of imagination, and on the other side is
the junkyard of miscalculation, and the ruins of the future are kept
there to, until their time has come and then is thru, and every now and
then an impossibility jumps the fence, and sings for it’s supper at it’s
own expense, but time doesn’t have a memory and it has no eyes, so it
cant remember the truth or see thru the lies, but clocks are the
conspirators against all this holy time, but they cant stop the
posthumous poet from singing his eternal rhyme.
july 87