NEIGHBORHOOD
SUICIDE WATCH
Who would want to live? Starlight and mendacity
mixed. Umbridge Cocktails, made by those
swallow-headed girls we all know well.
I want to be this vestige of a planet -
dust-dwarf clump of rock, swirling hole
of anti-matter. Just let me go. Now.
-
Don't lace me with your straight-talk.
Your disgusting platitudes of generous
grace. I barricaded the shed door twice
already with the boards of your declension.
I've taken your sons and daughters with me.
I've enjoyed all my own pretensions.
-
Visiting the old mansion on Tupplefanger
Hill, we suddenly remembered the old family
which lived there once : my God, the very
Tupplefangers themselves! Those old
Newark bastards with a brewery all
their own and all that saucy money.
-
It was 1964. We broke into the storage room.
It was filled with hundreds of thick, black
plastic Victrola records, 'thicker than dinner
plates,' you said. We managed to break every
last one : throwing at walls, smashing with
rocks, stomping with stupid feet. Our
very own Inquistion! Our Crusade!
-
Why we called it that, I'll never know.
The old cop who came to get us -
in some ancient black Plymouth
with a single light on top - said
it was 'all for show.' Not a real
apprehension, I think he meant,
just a response, all for show.
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