Burning Suburbia

 

Creep up on

your most cherished memories

and slip the knife

up under the ribs.

Hand over the mouth,

lower them to the floor,

and let them bleed out.

 

Find the place where comfort

rests in sloth and solace.

From your hide

calculate your dope for it.

Anticipate the target,

for it is a well known

creature of habit,

and put a bullet in it

when the time is right.

 

Murder what has made you.

There is only weakness there.

These are the things that make you;

soft and unaware.

Now,

your enemies surround you,

but you still think

that noble defeat

is better than war.

You’ve forgotten

what so many fought for.

 

Kill the voice inside your head

that draws up images

of old, nostalgic days,

for there are none of those

in the future you have made.

I’ve heard it said,

“Revolution isn’t poetry”,

but I beg to differ,

as I recall all that made me suffer.

 

Burn the suburbs;

we won’t need them anymore.

Where we’re going

we’re not coming home.

I don’t think many of us know

what it takes

to make a world

like the one we’ve known.

 

I pray the never will,

as I lay

my last romantic notion

in the dirt.

I think it’s almost past time

for hoping for better;

maybe now,

we prepare for the worst.

 

 

HG – 2021

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