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Michael McGuire
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Solitary Confinement
Father of a loose shadow,
Some numb pulse to drive my guts,
Determined void reduced to empty discipline,
Proud loser's highlighted scars,
Inspired arbiter of outsider ethics,
The unused format of utopian thugs,
The linear swell of history's quite killer,
I hang from the tusk of my nothingness.
The honey-drained drip of rusted poetry,
Good day to die weather from the window,
Skull cursing; unweeded Eden of endings,
Dumb-days scatter like bugs in light,
Lift my shadows for soul cleaning,
In the numbing echo of my god-gone head,
And this silence that feeds my being,
Can urge me to the outskirts of my future.
Let the mood of the junk-man trigger my fate,
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The electronic antiques of my memory charged,
The woe of my caged now,
The numb music of my head against the walls,
Dream induced sleep of a dreamer,
Surgery of soft-focus-regrets,
Let the run of eternity run the waste of me,
And load the lyric parameters of the moon.
Oh this cruel maker; the despot of my days,
Bend just to break my bones in a billion different ways,
Just to wet the will of every meal I can't afford,
Oh to cash the coin to break the bank of the dreamer's landlord,
This world jukes the stats of self-loathing to self-pity,
The vagrant of paradise; the keys to an empty city,
Victim to the status of the motion's agonies,
Bread and water to the prisoner of the age's apathies.
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