Beckon, and we, the
Prodigals, drawn from the constant glow
To a brighter brittler burning
Renounce the genetic shackles of landed gentryhood
And flee the heritage for the promise.
For the darker side, the apples
Beckon too, and we, the
Prodigals, drawn from sharecropping serfdoms
To sparkling seas of prosperous possibility
Disinherit the sweat-stained toil
And the hand-to-mouth hopelessness
And flee the wasteland for the promise.
But the bright bit is poisoned
The promise unfulfilled.
The pastel best and brightest
Crisp suburbia's teflon surface
While the darker shades among us
Share, with stench and worms, the mouldering core.
Hope's mothwings bear us heedlessly
To soul-engulfing Molochs;
Our lemming strivings launch us thrashing
Into inertial tides.
From glow to singing pyre
From grey to deeper darkness
The downside of the tracks
Tastes the apple's venomous slice
As the uppercrust burns and is consumed.
Tradition flees to immolation
Chaos to desolation
And amidst the brutal frenzy
The seed dies shelltrapped and unborn.
Nothing changes. Except to decompose
In black hole urban entropy.