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Michael McGuire
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Process Apocalypse
We don't bloom until we blossom we bloom until we rot,
Soldiers of the weather and the sum of what we'er not,
A pack of restless energy flown in from the sun,
The parcel of a process apocalypse that is never done.
Stoke our animal-engines with the sex of survival.
Discarded divinities haunt the halls of our arrival,
Into this kitchen of soft-chefs where the thought is what it thinks,
All the patrons are drinking their wounds and nursing their drinks,
Lamenting that every reason happens for a thing,
The moment; the mere junk of what the next may bring,
So we make a bid to buy the ruins of a will that once was free,
Because we'er sold on some idea of what just has to be.
This thought pollution finds its way to the body politic,
The systematic-symptom of a system that is sick,
And the days are long on labour and the nights are short on sleep,
The moments are a plea-bargain you cannot catch or keep,
Endless absurdities that compliment the reach of the absurd,
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Junkyard mythologies that flay the flesh off of the word,
Alive by mere survival we go wandering electric-wastelands,
Thinking we can turn these busy ruins into gracelands.
Lost because understanding is a destination with bad directions,
So we rent this dogmatic-dystopia with our emotional insurrections,
The ambit of pharmaceutical contentment will serve causality and cause,
Each his own stone to roll and guiltier than the laws,
And our daily-distortions leave their shadows like landscaped litter,
We'd rather die by the poison because the cure is so bitter,
A thousand ways to self-destruct or build your better days,
Nowhere is a straight star-tracker when you've lost all other ways.
Vested in the token bitch of change we run this routine tragedy,
The bliss turns into a blister and we take the rap for a rhapsody,
Between the ready and the ruin the blood-works and river-runs,
The masses are massacred by the choice of the chosen ones.
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