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sansara-justinovichPoems
Other worlds have hopes, for plants, for trees and dogs walking by, panting soaking in humidity like carp above water. Not ours. Dead ends, parked cars supplanting serenity with passion, desire crammed into row upon row of heartless dwellings expunging sunglass-wearing **** suckers blocking their emptiness from the world with reverse blindfolds. I know their eyes still glare at me, scoffing at them. Walking, I walk past their barricaded kennels, under- construction housing impersonating natural climes with sushi and slushy shops. People like them have admiss- able drives, hankering after freedom; they're indoctrinated to believe admission is monthly cable bills wired in beneath concrete slabs maintained compliance through lines painted on grass where overlords can tell livestock what to do. Bus chutes form hillsides, beside lines of trees which perfume these feedlots we call cities. **** oozes below streets walked on, they stared at me like cows, watching a ranch-hand suspicion toward anything beyond bistro fences. "What the **** are you looking at, you filthy animal? Have you no idea which species your greed feeds? Do you know where this ends for you? Who's tazing your *** who's making you sit there?" Moo, mooo. Mooooooooooooooooooo. Receipts, a cudgel on each table, more cudgels ring from pockets telling them what time it is, where they're to be. Sunday's almost over, back to blocks of houses! Graze on painted grass, then die, but not before you stare at me with empty eyes, you pathetic, miserable creatures.
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Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
Painted Grass
Other worlds have hopes, for plants, for trees and dogs walking by, panting soaking in humidity like carp above water. Not ours. Dead ends, parked cars supplanting serenity with passion, desire crammed into row upon row of heartless dwellings expunging sunglass-wearing **** suckers blocking their emptiness from the world with reverse blindfolds. I know their eyes still glare at me, scoffing at them. Walking, I walk past their barricaded kennels, under- construction housing impersonating natural climes with sushi and slushy shops. People like them have admiss- able drives, hankering after freedom; they're indoctrinated to believe admission is monthly cable bills wired in beneath concrete slabs maintained compliance through lines painted on grass where overlords can tell livestock what to do. Bus chutes form hillsides, beside lines of trees which perfume these feedlots we call cities. **** oozes below streets walked on, they stared at me like cows, watching a ranch-hand suspicion toward anything beyond bistro fences. "What the **** are you looking at, you filthy animal? Have you no idea which species your greed feeds? Do you know where this ends for you? Who's tazing your *** who's making you sit there?" Moo, mooo. Mooooooooooooooooooo. Receipts, a cudgel on each table, more cudgels ring from pockets telling them what time it is, where they're to be. Sunday's almost over, back to blocks of houses! Graze on painted grass, then die, but not before you stare at me with empty eyes, you pathetic, miserable creatures.
MMXII This comes from a very angry place for me. I've been trying to write this poem all along. I can wish no better fate than knowing we all, one day, must die. What a blessing.
sansara-justinovich
Written by
sansara-justinovich
American
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
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