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Michael McGuire
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Great Big Beautiful Fucked Up World
Everyday the news is a masterpiece of disaster and we are agony's audience,
But the news is really just some guy in the back room with a typewriter and a toothache,
Days build upon the bulk of eons to turn this moment rendered,
And we in the stagnate orbit of the now end up waiting in impotent homage to living.
Great big beautiful fucked up world.
Life pulsating; undulating and syncopating to the context of the rhythm and the speed of change, Laying foundation for a new church and some hands-of-god maniac just wants to blow it up, Those demonic pedestrians who traffic in fear want to shake the unknown into existence,
For as many reasons as there are gods we bury the dead.
Great big beautiful fucked up world.
The grass gets no greener only the money followed by the apocalypse engine,
In the garden of a ghetto dogwoods paint the pink of poverty against the riches of the sky, Evening and morning oscillate nervously it's god shadow he's pacing the floor of the heavens, War-babies nursed on the slaughter tap the foot to the banging drum.
Great big beautiful fucked up world.
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Agents of April work their cruelty; decay the working essence of the mechanism,
A beauty-beyond; a tangle of woe-born worlds and working parts collide and caress,
Mankind's ditch like a war-wound on the pacific and proud bread of earth,
White noise of routine pandemonium jams the silent signals of ascetic angels.
Great big beautiful fucked up world.
A voice singing of itself in the enthusiasm and wonder of this mandate of song,
Yet but a child to these ancient ancestors of matter; myth; life and the great blank of time,
As able to implode as an unworkable model as to take the crown as glory of all glories,
The exhaust of the enterprise of the idiot hours dissipates the tangible oneness.
Great big beautiful fucked up world.
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