suburban reflections part 2

Pink, soft-faced, lipsticked girls alone, always alone, in loneliness sanctified, made whole, renewed! Windows, t-shirts, magazines, circumstance, swearwords and sex-jokes, all your's like TV and bedsocks, all the massing signs of death as you exult in life.

How stale, shallow, silly it all is! How it saddens me and makes me turn away! We have no creation here, nothing to do, no tales to tell. Instead, the screaming television, the happy, blooming, murderous box screaming its insanities, as if madness was the status quo, as if hatred were OK for participants, voyeurs, the last heroes seduced, and made dumb. I am dumb along with them.

Can love, the love that made the great cities, pounded up mountains from dust, carved great sculptures, composed the most beautiful songs, survive here? We want no more of love now. We think no more of it than of the last soggy fagpacket or sweetie wrapper on the pavement, trodden underfoot in lamplight.

We have no need for it. The boys turn their stallion-like, hair-flopping faces away from it to grimace in a tobacco-stinking joke. The girls are so soft and complacent in their breasts, silken hairs, and gossip magazines that they have lost the will, in shadowy bedrooms, for anything but editorial cyncism and electronica.

An empty laugh just echoed in the street- Words no longer mean anything. On every door is written "there is no such thing".