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by a.h.s. boy

dressed to be invisible
dressed to transgress the makeup of society
dressed to remake the organic body
dressed to be over and done with
dressed to make excuses for the wretched conditions we believe
to be responsible for the terrible state of affairs we find ourselves
constantly embroiled in; it's not my fault dammit.

The kids whine down the street in anger
blazing halos left behind, hovering in the air,
unable to keep up, still shining in the rear-view mirror.
The lights never turn red. Everything is always go,
urban indians in modern cars. Tearing their own lungs out
because it feels good. Feels right.

Smoke in the room collapses into your throat,
the path of least resistance, and it fills the void
where a moral conscience would be. You've given up
on the didactic value of theatre but wouldn't
put it in those terms. Intellectuals need reasons
to blow their noses. And chain smoke.

Dressed to kill time
dressed to deconstruct reality
dressed to obviate the obvious
dressed to struggle with aliens
dressed to find enlightenment 
hovering over a black dress the day that
laundry needed to be done and you weren't sure
how to convey an ideological message
without appearing dirty, downtrodden, or lazy.

It's a killjoy logic that questions the beauty of a warm bed,
that puts on a tie and plays a game called business,
because simple games are the most fun to play and
too many rules will follow you to payday. 


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