Wednesday, December 28, 2011

"funeral for the middle class"

"funeral for the middle class"
written while watching a movie with a man in bandages by jake kilroy.

what is the condition of the middle class?
flat-out fucking dead?

this is why we attend plays,
to pretend culture,
or why we spend hours looking at christmas lights
on december 27th,
because we can't ever go home
without thinking
about the lovers
we pray are dead
without us.

the middle class is one big mass grave
of people that considered revolution
and then stopped.
twas just working class jive talk
that fell short
in the mechanic shops
where fear paralyzed us
and the shitty bars
where everyone drowned.

so we built churches
and prayed to gods
made of wood and regret,
called coffins statues
and feigned misery
to feel esteemed.

no gods,
no masters,
no peers,
no nothing.
this time,
we dance until we cry.

without songs or souls,
merciless and less,
we're starving at buffets
and complaining
about snacks.

this is the world,
broken and buried,
shoved into a closet
that belongs to the world's loneliest poet.

ethnic food for the white beggars
with income and benefits.
failure for the poor,
failure for the rich,
goddamn nothing for the middle class.

this is us sneaking into coffee shops
and hiding out in record stores,
all so we can get drunk
and check our voice messages
and hear the horrifying gasps
of our ex-lovers
that once left us
for people
that were like us
that don't like us
and wear better clothes.

in between the lines,
tucked away between words,
i'll explain everything to a stranger
at the airport
after a handful of pills
and a mouthful of shots.
but i won't brush my teeth
in front of my significant other
because i find this home life
the most doldrum waste of scars.

sure, sure,
these are the bandages i shoplifted
and the keepsakes i dipped in holy water,
the laughs i kept in glass bottles
and the weather i hoped would never come.
but it'll never be the party i wanted,
the shot of adrenaline i called medicine,
the hope with me i carried like a lucky coin.

this is a terrible idea from a scholar,
a wish from a kid who can't dream,
maybe even the last train home,
in a house where no one sleeps well.

so if this is the funeral for the middle class,
the one foretold in rumors and fliers,
you better count your lucky fucking stars
that i've got a few good dollars in my pocket.

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