Poem Fourteen.
Trenton Makes, The World Takes
I tried to draw from memory
What you meant to me:
What I got looked something like bug eyes.
When you stare at your concrete enough
You can be fooled into thinking it’s natural:
There are grain lines, and imperfections
There’s a greenish mess of moss seeping through
But you are dead. You give the world nothing.
You died long before I was born, but no one sees
You lost your way before you went neon -
You mean nothing to me.
I am dulled here: your inhabitants are grey, their thoughts beiged.
“Progress on all fronts,” the Trentonian says
I see twenty year-old temporary walls and people getting out
While they still can.
The Garden State is now full of weeds;
The idiot-consumer’s readymade plastic paradise
No-one can tell where you end and they begin.
No-one realises they are no different;
Trenton, I hate you, but you are unoriginal:
You look as supplanted from reality
As the idea that lead this state, let alone provide for it.
Trenton Takes, The World Makes:
Responsibility has been outsourced.
II
I cannot stand to sit here like this.
I can remember when Jersey Tomatoes weren’t from Peru,
When I was happy to still call you home.
I traveled five hundred miles today to find
Just a little part of my youth;
I want to leave you and miss you,
Not leave to find you.
From the sky, you look just like spaghetti,
More tarmac than verdant heartland
But this is the heartland now -
In a country fully fueled by desire;
Sustenance is assumed, taken for granted.
Trentonians:
Do yourself a favour and pack your bags
Buy a ticket, get on this train,
Because this is all wrong.
Lay down on the road and wait
You’re driving to your own death.
And calling it progress.
Trenton Fakes, The World Ignores.
I tried to draw from memory
What you meant to me:
What I got looked something like bug eyes.
When you stare at your concrete enough
You can be fooled into thinking it’s natural:
There are grain lines, and imperfections
There’s a greenish mess of moss seeping through
But you are dead. You give the world nothing.
You died long before I was born, but no one sees
You lost your way before you went neon -
You mean nothing to me.
I am dulled here: your inhabitants are grey, their thoughts beiged.
“Progress on all fronts,” the Trentonian says
I see twenty year-old temporary walls and people getting out
While they still can.
The Garden State is now full of weeds;
The idiot-consumer’s readymade plastic paradise
No-one can tell where you end and they begin.
No-one realises they are no different;
Trenton, I hate you, but you are unoriginal:
You look as supplanted from reality
As the idea that lead this state, let alone provide for it.
Trenton Takes, The World Makes:
Responsibility has been outsourced.
II
I cannot stand to sit here like this.
I can remember when Jersey Tomatoes weren’t from Peru,
When I was happy to still call you home.
I traveled five hundred miles today to find
Just a little part of my youth;
I want to leave you and miss you,
Not leave to find you.
From the sky, you look just like spaghetti,
More tarmac than verdant heartland
But this is the heartland now -
In a country fully fueled by desire;
Sustenance is assumed, taken for granted.
Trentonians:
Do yourself a favour and pack your bags
Buy a ticket, get on this train,
Because this is all wrong.
Lay down on the road and wait
You’re driving to your own death.
And calling it progress.
Trenton Fakes, The World Ignores.