suburbanites
harbor a deep-seated fear
of city streets and godforsaken
rural wilds, which is why
they dig mown lawns
and the innocent carnival chimes
of the ice-cream man.
But nevertheless, their ghastly end
comes
and comes,
and never stops coming
all the live-long days of their spaced
out lives. Complacency kills
like a case of pills and scotch.
But society's ills do not
stop there.
Meanwhile, ruralites harbor
a deathly phobia of breaking waves.
So they tread very carefully, angling
sideways, gently into the sea
to return again to the sea
and become again dolphins
and starfish, the endless cycle
in order to escape
their repressive sexual mores.
Only to be eaten by what else?
Morays, or something else
eelish at any rate - a sea serpent,
the selfsame death we scoffed
as it approached - in numberless
surfacing humps - our becalmed
armada of ships and boats
scheduled eventually to come in.
Another sad ending, considering
our hopes.
The cityites, though -
Who knows? Make something up
Something horrible, with a twist
of melancholy tragic to it, like
they deserved it, only no one could
deserve that, but
they did.
For living in the city.
Whatever you make up is
the terrible made-up price
of such unnatural dwelling.
Wallowing in such rife places
of kink, titillation and moral threat
Nobody could deserve it, but that's
about what you're bound to get
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