A True Voice in the Degenerate Neighbourhood.

Kara and Eli… my fabled uncles!
Moved to a white town known for its local pastry
The alley-cats were tattled by the aging neighbours
So they even cuddled on the porch of Auntie Jay
And by tie-knotted Mike, who never stops going bald

They drove perfectly functional cars
Made-fit for family life
Grew beer-bellies the size of tires,
And laughed vociferously all day

Eli’s good manners were ruined by the days,
By fifty, the cap-cut pastry oven abused depressing casseroles
With its levelled odour clumping next to cinnamon cakes
Making Wednesday’s intolerable sameness,
Uniform to all senses.

Kara’s widened waist pleaded thunder,
Amassed inches by the ticking of the clocks
In harmony to the reverberating fat in her buttocks
Like a perched glob clotting insolence
Her cool ways elevated a smile with year-long hypocrisy
While her manufactured smell plucked Eli’s nerve
Beyond the suspicion of her toiling neighbours.
Gardening laboratory flowers.

Funnily, moss-green mattresses read ‘welcome!’ before all doors
Arching the gist of the noise-starved block
To hoodwink the unsuspecting of a prowling stillness
Not worth the charade to all divinities.

A star-sick visionary named it “Bloomingdale”
Paying tacit tribute to the monstrosity of boredom
Lurching never their eyes, they folded back the skyline,
The marching well and the inconspicuous trees

They devoured it all,
Leaving of life no single germ

Erasing all asymmetry,
Erasing all,

Trace.