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Lucy Wooding Sep 2017
Passing through the Amarillo gate,
Abandoned in the Lonestar state.
He could never fathom why God led him this way,
Must be a reason why he treads on dusty plains.

The fiery sunlight has wilted his hopes,
Through these meandering roads, cowboy walks alone.
Rodeo fortune will pay the prize,
And the money earn't will suppress the want for family ties.

The cigar is rolled, as he smokes away his days,
Sun burning his weather beaten face.

A soaring eagle flies over him, the misfit.
As he plays with the thought of free falling from an oil rig.

He strays alongside the vacuous roadside, his eyes encapsulated with dark dejection.
The sky's pastel glow illuminates the desolate wilderness,
Where the purple Scorpion **** thrives under the suns aggressive rays,
Radiating a rancid odour,
And rabid Coyotes patrol the mountains various nooks and crannies.

Cowboy is hopeless, his soul set in a sorrowful disposition.
Lifeless, like a dead corpse, wasting time, as his numbered days slip away
Like the deserts drifting sand.

The country of freedom is a lie,
A myth that's ruined this cowboys life.
He's treated like an outlaw, though he's not committed a crime,
And his forlorn attitude will remain with him, until the day he dies.
tamia Jul 2017
together we watched sunsets
more than senseless television shows
in our minds we mapped escape routes
on the empty roads that wound on and on
the uniform houses with plain walls
made the city feel so far away
when that was where we wanted to be
all we ever knew were the same little stores
and lifeless gasoline stations
but with the lack of life around us
we were still storms brewing in our bedrooms
painting the grey town with the colors
of knowing we belonged in other places
and indulgence in undying dreams
Debra Des Vignes Feb 2017
42 souls dead in 30 homes
The suburban nightmare has taken hold. No,
it’s a city problem, too.

It has taken Kim and Jim and them
hiding behind rows within
their walls made to last, moonlight dim, drowning in a sea of thunder, caviar is cheap fodder
while odorless fresh lilies below in the breeze: they’ve come this far, why leave?

to run on a cold concrete prison track
to spin in an airless hamster wheel trap
what is today?

jingle-jingle, metal chains, shackled, dominos splayed
on her named chest
where she lays
and her beating red heart flails
why go? Stay. This lasts and lasts and lasts and lasts. And it spreads fast.

It has swallowed Jim and Kim, a city, a suburb,
what is life expectancy, anyway?
House, cars, keys, sold

43 souls dead in 31 homes
their masks, all things untold.
RLG Sep 2016
Pollen scented halos
float on tin music
played from under
pop-up gazebos
(providing insurance
against dark clouds
blotting the horizon).
Light dims and glares
as the sun plays peek-a-boo
with infants running
to no end.

Pram junkyards,
picnic islands;
the territories of the
green and daisy-dotted land.
***** thumped with bass notes
in wrong directions;
dads run after toe-poked
spheres into the road.
Trees watch from the edges;
a shallow forest leading
to suburbia, where the *****,
gazebos, children are stored.

Dogs. Oh, the dogs.
This is their land, of course.
They make the rules
and pull their clothed
owners like staggering drunks
into the deep of the park.

A man jogs past.
A bike rings it's bell.
A laugh wins the
battle of decibels.
A plastic bag rustles
in the exhaling wind.
The daisies vibrate
and reach to leave their
grassy bed.
But they are part of the park.
May they never leave.
May England remain this
way in memories forever.
Crystal June Jun 2016
And I'm here in this little glass house,
On display for the robots next-door --
The last of human life
Trapped in a box with translucent locks
In this paradisiacal paradox.

The suburbs are where dreams go to die.
Look at that cool-guy dad of three
With a car from 1970
Who doesn't get a wink of sleep,
And for dinner he eats batteries.

He wasn't supposed to be like this,
Spending more time with his therapist
Than with his mechanizing kids.

Love is sending them as far away as possible
Before they're condemned to your same tragic fate.

Their precious internal organs are slowly being swapped and traded with engine parts,
So that their chests hum rather than beat --
And wheels are used more often than feet.

Extension cords for intestines
And oil for blood,
Plug them in to sleep at night
So that they may be fully charged and operational tomorrow.

They are constantly being programmed in the greatest form of mass production known to man.
(Well, what's left of him.)

Cookie cutter children with magnetic hands,
Always grabbing and attracting new parts to attach to themselves.
Chewing microchips like bubblegum,
Transferring data as a form of fun.

It's "cool-guy dad 2.0."
He's outdated now,
Useless apart from nurturing the new generation that will ultimately cause his demise.

Oh, what a time to be alive.
To be a human on display in an industrial neighborhood.
(And don't even get me started on the soccer moms.)
The suburbs get to me sometimes (a.k.a. all the time).
Chris Neilson Jun 2016
Locked the door
then opened my mind
for a spring time stroll
from home to city
via streets, fields and a tram
a wave to Mary and hello to Gladys
elderly neighbours tending their pansies
My gathering gait to reach the gate
of the clough and it's delights
descending to a blue bridge
beneath the azure sky
over a rocky stream
riveted by a rivulet struggling over stone
an ascent to a church
with the promise of heaven for the faithful
I sit on the fence
horse-shaped figurines amid swathes of green
a view of the field where I've just been
reaching the village
a takeaway reads "** Fat"
unsure about the menu
onto the Metro
a link in a chain of pain
making a stand by refusing to sit
it smells a bit
of fare dodgers
reaching my destination
reaching my destiny
reaching  for the parts tutors don't teach
reaching for the parts others don't reach
The Metro is the unpopular metrolink tram service serving Greater Manchester
Andrew T May 2016
The neighborhood was surrounded
by looming trees and basketball hoops,
shrouded in a blanket of blinding sunshine
that burned the petals
off of the white magnolias
and the pink petunias
that all stood crooked in the rigid garden,
the soil entrenched with dead caterpillars
and corpses of black birds.  
There were large holes
that were pocked in the slanted driveways.
Tarnished, ruby red sedans sat side by side,
their tires deflated and front fascias
caked with mud and grime.
Each house had a flat roof with peeling shingles,
and wide gutters that were strewn with brown leaves
which fluttered down to the front lawn
when the winds from the Northeast
pushed through to cover the neighborhood with
freezing air.
A little girl was chasing a little boy,
swinging at him with a whiffle ball bat,
hollering until her voice was hoarse,
the white sundress she was wearing, frayed
on the edges, her long hair bleached from the sun.
The boy had a deep shiner on his left eye
and snot flying out his nose while he giggled,
running around in circles and circles,
pulling up on his trousers which kept
slipping below his waist, the buttons
on his dress shirt dangling against the fabric.
A short woman with hunched shoulders
was leaning back in a rocking chair,
snapping open a cold beer,
tapping her blue slippers together,
gazing at the children, her chin in her hand,
wishing she could run freely without
the bones in her legs cracking and bending
from one end to the other.
The weather was muggy, slicking
the pools of water that had been collected
beneath the lonely streetlamp, its bulb opaque
on one side, and naked on the other.
I remember that we were sheltered in this environment,
imprisoned from the blaring sirens atop the police cruisers
and the nasty rodents, which crawled along
the winding streets looking for innocence in children.
And now we are living apart from our gated communities,
decaying away in our studio apartments and cozy bungalows,
watching Reality TV shows and college football games
on our 50 inch screens while we indulge in pistachio ice cream
and IPAs, thinking we are safe, thinking we
deserve our privilege, thinking that we need more.
More income, more flesh, more vehicles.
When all we need is a half-hour of conversation
with someone who cares about our disposition
dreams, and longings. And does not require
our status, our background, or our possessions.
We were sheltered from this world of hate and love,
and had to find ourselves through material objects,
and careless people.
But we can change and become better,
better than who we are now, beyond
what is said to be vibrant and beautiful.
Because we are human,
and are able to understand
what is right
and what is wrong.
Before we were sheltered
and now we are exposed
to the pain, to the suffering,
to the beauty, to the happiness.
The shelter has shattered
into many halves,
that do not have to be carried
on our backs
until we are old,
until we are gray,
until we collapse.
Melissa Apr 2016
                     are dying right now.

And you want me to make you ******* dinner.

I'll throw tacks in your casserole tonight, so you choke and become one of the dying.

I hope your casket is to your liking at least.
Suburbia is a dark place. Especially if all you ever do is tell your wife to make dinner for you. Don't ever question a housewife's abilities.
john shai Apr 2016
Slither slither
Come hither
From castle to castle
We fear and hustle

Every house a fortress
Lock the gates at day
Everyone wants your money
Responsible for the poor

Buy socks from a street vendor
At an extravagant price
Save money at the supermarket
Because really your budget is tight

Give cigarettes to the druggies
At every traffic light
Give what you have left over
To charity; rids you of guilt

But the oraters in the halls
Of politics say you are the reason
You are the cause
The poor MUST commit treason
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