Michael McGuire Picture Perfect Misfit
PICTURE PERFECT MISFIT
© Electric Babylon Music Author: M.M.
So you just swallow your drink, call it a cure for this highway, grinding
gears of misery think, the future could happen today.
And your faith hits the ground with a thud, the red of her lips looks
just like blood, the sugar coated rain bleeds the flood, your egos horse
is a stud. Close your eyes and count the bankers, the numbers of
speech divide the stutter, spilled by evenings oil tankers, the engine of
night; hear it sputter. Her high heels make a clicking show ghost, your
tongue makes a bane of it’s boast, time parades from calendar to
coast, heavens are mapped from the hype to the host. It must be
further out than it is in, traveling with Cain and his pocket sin, feed
these fundamental beliefs with supplemental fantasies, to set the bait
in the mousetrap of vanities, contort the rage into an eleventh hour
joke, put a fix on that leak till it’s as good as broke, like a lawyer
defending a criminal, the broken bone of a handshake is seminal, but
it’s about as tangible as an atom in a cannonball, the logic of banging
your head against a wall, so you feel so at home with this alien ache,
reality dialed up in degrees of sanction fake, you betray your faith in
yourself and masturbate, put the blame on that bi*** time for making
you wait, with the moon in your voice and the stars in your vocabulary,
you stumble into focus searching for sanctuary. It’s easy to hide a pain
that doesn’t really hurt, glass is breakable; but why bother; you can see
right thru it, with all the virtuosity it takes to button your shirt, you
pretend that you didn’t know how to undo it.
Let darkness define your losses, words expressed fuel the pollution,
proud martyrs bare there crosses, gods of problem and solution.
A virgin of your lust; she goes unknown, to be a bride to the church of
the bone, her image is just the myth of a loan, her voice rumored
current of the phone. Sunsets and alarm clock rising, limp to the stand
with an erection, the laughs and the jibes; not surprising, it’s just the
blood of beauty’s affection. The colors of a picture perfect misfit, all
that’s lost he’s determined to find it, he seeks justice determined to
blind it, though the contract of fate he’s already signed it.
Nov.98