MADE OF GLASS
The growing suburban underclass
grows weary of its cell, but what
are we to do? Provide them more
of their gibberish as fodder, or gain
them other goals to reach, since
already they have none except
Sunday's football treats? Hold
their gameboards for them as
they order up another pie and
then argue which is better,
Sorrento's or the Italian Guy?
-
Let them live their shitty lives
in bunkers with their kids? To
plaster up their kitchens with
dementia and hang upon their
every word? Crapshoots for the
dead are worth more than that,
I've heard.
-
The fireman enters center-stage
to go on about his ideals: More
bullshit from the council seat
where already the town has
been razed not saved. Once
the rabble scent their hounds,
the anarchy of ignorance will
then arise. Another false savior,
made of glass, will shatter.
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