Suburban Wasteland: Original Poems & Haiku

A whole lot of damage going on.  Calm down, you guys. Are you showing off or hellbent on destroying your city.
A whole lot of pink going on. I don't know who decorated this hot mess of a restaurant, but I'm assuming there's some burning need for 1950's kitch. But we'll never  know the real story.

Here are some bored-to-the-teeth suburban kids, who are likely doing something shady. They give me a "Lord Of the Flies" vibe.
The eldest of the boys, went from being an upstanding school boy named Jack Merridew to a merciless savage with war paint
This scene from the film indicates that, even children can turn into wild savages when left with no adults. William Golding's prize-winning novel shows the disintegration of the thin veneer of society because he had done a lot of researching.

In suburbia, if all the adults vanished and left them to fend for themselves, what would it take for them to disintegrate into savages.  Just some speculation.

Tearing At the Seams 

Haunted one
Wearing a bodice full
Of sharp and angry buttons

They enclose you completely
Holding sweet mortal painm
Close to your swollen chest.

Struggling to free yourself
But the outer casing rips, tearing
A ragged hole where your heart should be.

Thrusting a tightened fist inside
The chasm widens, allowing all the lifes blood
You've been keeping, forever it seems 

Anorexia had stolen so many years from her
Healthy for a moment--then stung by a relapse.
Myah was tired, as her body crumbled for the last time

This awful disease takes no prisoners
It's an ugly monster preventing Myah
From living a normal and happy life

...One lonely afternoon, the 14-year-old had enough
The blade sliced her paper-thin skin with ease
And as she sat squarely in the womb-warm puddles

.........hoping and praying for an inevitable release.

Lonelyheroine 2017.


Pain Without An Antidote

Cowering and camouflaging come easily for you
I've felt your pain and did everything to avoid it.
Someday, the depression will lift and 
You'll be able to see that there's still a lot                          
Of hope and tranquility
To guide you into a wonderful world 

You've never been able to navigate before.                                                                                              
We are living in a time of  decay
Or did the Catholic Church
Deem that we're in the last days?
Will an avenging Appocalic's gaping
Maw chew humanity up 
And spit us out in abject repulsion.

More Haiku

All hope is now dashed
Apathy has settled in
No-one left to blame.                                    


 Suburbia, I've often been told                                                                         
It's a great place to raise your kids                                                                                           
At least that's what the warden told me."         


      The High Price Of Slow Exsanguinating                                        

Suburbanites are diving, like frenzied lemmings      
Into inground pools in each and every backyard
Aren't we truly in the "Land of plenty?"
We pretend  to be blissfully unaware 
Of the maggots swimming under our garbage cans."

Why? Because today, the Jones's came in second
Yes!! We FINALLY won first prize in the badminton finals!"
Backyard barbeques are mandatory, of course
Here's another trophy to mount on the wall.

God, I despise all of this shallow one upmanship 
That sullies every vacant Saturday and Sunday
As soon as I turn eighteen, my sentence 
Will be lifted and I'll be on parole.

So what does being "on parole" mean, you may ask?
It means that, no longer will I have to pretend to be happy.
I can finally ditch that saccharine smile I thought to be permanent.
I don't have to create an endorphin high from huffing petrol fumes.

I did my penance. Confessed to losing my virginity
And then lying that Susie Henderson hated every second of it.
I can escape the pink and blue blandness and uncomfortable chairs
Only after death frees me from this tepid suburban nightmare.

Lonelyheroine 2017.                                                                         

That which doesn't kill us     
Will likely come around again                                 
To finish the job.

 The Torn Pillow

He winced, just as
Cold stiff fingers
Raked through his brain
Like a sharp trowel
Thoughts of steel  pierced
The soft, grey fullness                   
So that, before too long
They split apart completely

Allowing tiny wisps of down
To spray haphazardly
Littering furniture and floor
Of the boy's cold and empty room.

Lonelyheroine 2017                                             

If you must desecrate a bus shelter, at least use your imagination.
Ah yes. The old pitch the brick into a store window bit.
Pretty in pink. What looks like astroturf posing as  grassy yards. I think I had a doll house which was quite like this cartoon suburban hot mess.
A comfortable chair, a good book and a new television ----who could ask for anything more?
Somehow, a disgruntled defacer is announcing to everyone passing by that he's not too crazy about the man in the picture.