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85 and off the ladder

picking leaves from the gutter

Wife soon after

They found her dentures

on the kitchen tile

A few weeks later the neighbor

still in her sunhat and green gloves

hose running in her hand

Felled by a bee hiding in her marigolds.

Then her dog,

Went to live with someone else

But wouldn’t eat.

Wasn’t long before the flowers went too.

Eaten up in the dried, cracked soil.

The houses went up for sale

Little signs sitting innocently

In the front lawns:

“So & So Realty”

Pretty soon

some lovely young couples moved in

Had children

Bought a dog

Cleaned gutters

Planted more marigolds

Watched the rain run down

The window

And the reaper grinned

A little More than usual.
Kieran Messer Apr 15
This motorway circles
Back to where I begin:
The nowhere concrete jungle
Of copy-paste homes;
Copy-paste shopping centres
With copy-paste shops;
Where opportunity won't arrive
Until I somehow leave.
When she became the prom queen,
She was the prettiest thing they’d ever seen.
Soft gold curls spill over her back,
Bright green eyes, no sign of decay inside.
A spotlight shines down enhancing her cream-colored gown.
She beams as she accepts the crown.  

She kneels down and throws up blood.
Her head comes up in a white marble tiled bathroom,
Starting to stench.
Staring deep into the reflection in her mother’s mirror,
Slowly withering away.

Pills spill around the room
Sitting by the window
She stares into the sun.
Waiting for a crimson bouquet,
And a plastic tiara  

She powders her face,
Peachy pink cheeks on pale white skin.
She colors her lips and paints on a smile
Slips on a dress that flows to the floor.

They call out her name,
Lost in a daze she walks out on stage,
Stands all alone.
And when they crowned me the prom queen
I was the ugliest girl I’d ever seen.

-Inside on the Other side
By Sofia Delicari
Poetry Addict Mar 16
Between the home and the word
Lies silences that will guard, like blackout curtains,
The condemnation of memory
Her face a straightjacket.

Is this bravery tapping past
the smallness of the kitchen
Sighing at the clear sunlight of twilight
Mercilessly liquid, revealing nothing--
That samizdat illness.
Sometimes life is all about appearances...
Thera Lance Jan 30
The Home Owners Association
Came by again today
With open glares at
The green crawling across my chestnut walls,
Blocking out my view of
Their pale tan plaster and
Baby blue curtains.

Fees clutched in hand
Eviction notices in their prayers,
They march up to a house,
Existing outside of their domain,
Bought by a grandfather
And never sold to no developer.

I watch with arms crossed
As they step past tomato plants
Whose fathers I planted with mine long ago.

Pleasantries exchanged
Mean nothing combined with
Cold eyes on me as
I politely tell them that their nobility
Has no jurisdiction.

Later when,
One let’s his dog dig up
Pieces of my lawn-less garden,
I stare from my curtain of leaves
At exposed roots,
The veins of a child’s loss reaching into air.

Tears will do no more than moisten the corners
As I walk outside
Camera in hand
Staring at a man
Who slowly droops
While shame dribbles back into his eyes.

Nothing is said,
Even when he turns and quietly walks away,
Leash held slack in hand
And dog loyally trailing behind.
A combination of fiction, news stories, and the real life daily dealings when confronting Surburbia.
Heather Ann Oct 2018
i dream of domestication
while being nailed to the picket fence of perfection.
six figures;
i hold his hand in my right.
my reflection in the mirror is split in two
because i threw stones and ruined your view.
in my left, her hand is warm,
and we're making less than the man twenty stories up.
i've been kicked to the bottom,
but she tastes so sweet.
you see, it's bitter;
i'm two halves
and they're begging me to be whole.
call it what you want, but i'll hold them both.
Danielle S Apr 2018
In the nausea of suburbia
There are
Houseguests, cigarettes, and having ***
in Corvettes

Headlights on the lake
Make me think of my mistakes
Who hasn’t been there before?

Small towns make b  i  g thoughts
How I wish I could understand
The roads I walk, every bit of gravel, every pothole, every turn of a corner

I saw a flash of white on the lake
Which was a crane, taking flight
I’m going insane

And sometimes
The grass is taller than me
Sometimes the water is deeper than what can be seen
Sometimes the sky seems too blue
To be true
And I wonder
Why I’m here and

So should you
The Dybbuk Jan 2018
I am the eyes above the city.
I can see the businessmen and budding actors, scampering like rats through a forgotten maze, and hear the clacking of their shoes on the concrete.
I am the eyes above suburbia.
I can see the soccer moms and teenagers, drinking when no-one is watching because the stresses of their tiny worlds are too much.
I am the eyes above the countryside.
I can see the creatures of these places wander across a barren world, and I can smell the moonshine they come across at night.
I am the eyes above the world.
I can see the grand illusion, pulled across the mighty sphere of the Earth, and I feel nothing but joy as I abandon this place for another.
Isabel Nov 2017
Suburbia; picket fences as white as the faces that live behind them. Rows of houses. The balustrades made of privilege, leading up to the verandas of entitlement. Semi-detached houses, almost too close for comfort. Discord versus conformity.

In their own little worlds, unaware of the squalor on the other side of town. Otherwise aware but unconcerned. Their suburban paths paved in a circle so they stay, their children stay, and suburbia is never empty. Constant noises. The whirring of toy cars being controlled with remotes, (exactly like the people who are oblivious to the fact that suburbia is attempting and succeeding to control and mould them into perfect, upstanding citizens) doors sliding, the murmur of voices,

“mum pass us the salt please”
“can we get some ice cream?”
“I’ll be home before the street lights turn on”.
Behind the cloned houses all made from the same stencil, are partners barely tolerating each other. Smiling at the neighbourhood get together's behind undisclosed differences. Poise and status. Stand tall. Nobody can know.

“Merry Christmas here’s a camera!”
Home videos. Grainy images, recollections.
“I remember that! You tripped over right after I finished recording!”
“It was my first time on roller skates give me a break”.

Video tapes and cassettes turned memory cards and USB’s, scattered with chunks of suburbia. Purposeless clips of picket fences, swings and gates being brought to life by wind.

A man is trying to grow grass in his new front yard but the birds keep eating the seeds. He digs up the dead grassy patches and starts again. A monotonous cycle like a drum rhythm with no end in sight.

Suburbia is a ritual of routine. Everyone gets what they want. Daddy can buy them a car, a house, friends. The whole **** world, you can have it your way. Upturned noses and superiority towards the people living in filth and squalor, they could help them, they have sufficient funds to lend, but choose to do nothing instead continuing to scrutinise them and place themselves on a higher pedestal.

Children grow up in sheltered suburban lifestyles blissfully unaware of what really goes on. Homophobic jocks and flirty dancers are born. Living apart from their nearby communities,
decaying away in studio apartments and cozy bungalows, watching some reality tv show, filmed in America, and footy games on their 55-inch television screens. Eating organic strawberry and coconut gelato and still thinking that they need more.

Some stray from the paved path of concession and “have it easy’s” and the ‘other side’ leaves an impact on them. Gratefulness, compassion, understanding. “Better go back and tell your friends, it’s not so scary down here in the ghetto huh” Race, social and working classes. Segregation is back with a vengeance, though it was never really gone, was it? Only covered up with some form of guilt and then continued by white supremacy.

When someone different comes along, someone who isn't on one of Cosmo’s diets, someone who doesn't wear heavy makeup, or is a size eight or below, someone who doesn't live in a palace made of dreams, someone who must truly work hard if they want things that aren’t necessities. How do they respond? They shun, they backstab and they gossip whilst sipping exotic wine from crystal glasses on their freshly manicured suburban lawn.

Unquestionably sheltered from the world of hate and love they have to find themselves through material objects, careless people and careless, empty conversations. What they truly need is conversation that doesn’t notice or need status, background, or possessions. Lemonade stands and garage sales. One man’s trash is another man’s suburban treasure.

Numbing. Overwhelming. Rumours and lies. They can recognise every face they walk past on the footpath, and they know that every face will recognise them back. I suppose if their face is known, their mistakes are easily remembered.

Vines begin to grow and engulf a half-stained deck weathered and worn by the hot sun. Whispers and disgruntled sighs fill the street as the suburban mums express their distaste towards the house down the road with its paint peeling fence and overgrown shrubs riddled with weeds.
“That house brings down the whole street I reckon. I wonder who lives there”
“I heard that it’s an old lady that got sick”
“Yeah, I heard that her husband left her for some young woman. Imagine that!”
“Well I would leave too if my garden looked like that. Gardens show pride and they represent your personality. I wouldn’t want to get involved with them”

Flesh is flesh. There is no separation between that body and the next. No one will ever view your life the way you view it so why bother trying to provoke your neighbours and make them think themselves inferior? Repress the mask, be yourself.

Make suburbia change for you.
Suburbia; houses designed to look pleasing. Families fit like puzzles, on the surface. Mother can drop off her youngest, complete chores with her eldest and be home in time for her favourite shows.
Ritual, routine, clockwork.
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