Gated

The story of Suburbanism
Is one of Necrophilia
For we are all so dead and wasted

Our graves are shallow
Just two inches
Of green, green grass

Our graves are kept in rows
Our crypts barred by gates

Rest in peace
Peace in rest
In peace, rest

Our tombstones all the same
Just rearranged

And ah, the flowers
Such pretty flowers
To hide the worms
And rotten, rotten flesh

Tall clear windows
That let no light
Bright white doors
That never lock
And let no one in

You left me lying
On damp, on dirty
Ground
My blood is spilling
Pooling

And everyone just stares
Waiting half an hour to swim
Crimson of the purest pencil lead

Free of sidewalks, of curbs
How can you call this “community”?

No longer split by tracks
But diagonal rows of grass
Each a snarled opinion of their own
The United Nations among neighborhood segregation
The great division of “my opinion matters more than yours” and “oh my god did you hear”

No.
For I have shut my ears against this American nauseation

Corpses raping corpses
Secrets kept in glass closets
Built beneath our plaster walls
Called our bedroom
Called our family
Called our home

To each their own
And it’s so disgusting