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                                           Dead the dream

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I picture all the people of HP together in one community

Living out the lives as described here

And what I see is an image

Of total debauchery and shameless ****** exploitation

Poems aimed at faceless entities called YOU

Who are nothing more than objects to vent hatred upon

Should they prove to be less than fully complacent props

In some drama of self mutilation


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It could all be labeled

PRISON NOISES

THE PSYCHOTIC BABBLE OF THE UNFREE

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                                              Dead the dream

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God is not dead

He's just drunk on his *** in a bar on some midnight street

Wondering how he'll feel this time

Amid the corpse and the screams