The Sideshow on Recession Road


While Stephenie Meyer was ascending the rungs to be an elite Mormon 
they are parked in cars on Zion, drug starved and looking for more, man…get it.
There is no irony lost on cracked desert veins sailing through follicle fault lines,
those calamitous gaps within the skin separating the genes like plate tectonics, 
until Laurasia falls, half remembered, into the annuls of a once pure blood Pangaea.
Vampires, or the Vampyr, for the condescends, are real and will suck young blood near you.
Not in theaters nor in the stained pages held passionately by sexualized adolescence, 
no, they dwell in the house boarded up, windowless to the world looking for windows
into the souls of miscreants, troubled troubadours and unbeautiful truths wanton to the sun
and all of its sweat soaked scintillating metaphors that come with it like the disdain 
all midgets acquire when reminiscing about the lines of false hope at an amusement park.
These are the haunted mansions where modern ghost stories are born, where succubus’s 
actually do suck you for bus fare to get to the streets where unholy fixes break holy lives.
A place where Team Mexican Brown and Team Cane fight for the love of Miss Ice,
but in the end everyone will be happy with a threesome or a day at the beach with Belushi.
And the only Bella known to these protagonists is not an Angel, only a patron of Dust swept 
beneath rugs, a realist’s unfortunate reality lost in the fantasies of a sleepless dream.
When once there was dust bowl carnivals trekking forgotten grounds in America’s prairies,
now there are these small Temples of Sodom hidden in the cul-de-sacs on Recession Road.
When bearded ladies and sword swallowing were once the main attractions of fetish followers,
now it’s just the bearded man, unkempt, swallowing his pride and all good intent. 
There was a time when a contortionist could capture a naïve mind with acts of severe possibility
and the Siamese twins would leave an “O” face on an unbelieving audience, collecting converts
all that is left now, the fragile woman, mind contorted by twin personalities fighting for dominance
in an abode where pity is a bedfellow best slept with and disaster a common friend.
This is the sideshow of the 21st Century, a carnivorous prefix to our future values…get it.
Tickets prices will be steep for the disillusionment of man and don’t miss the trailers 
held in the image of the toddler wandering naked within the darkened walls, already
drug sick and old beyond his years, a coming distraction for displaced disapprobation.
This is our vampire, our undead, our Nosferatu, ourselves through different destinies.
To them twilight is an early morning and the new moon never comes, no cycles for rebirth,
what few eclipses that are granted are brief, bittersweet times of clarity amongst entropy
and breaking dawn is but a fiction drowned out in the non fiction flooding all around.
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