Posts Tagged America 2017

America 2017, #11

Floating dead,

bending bridges and

organs, sing,

my friend of

your loss of all that was good,

and come back full brown.

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Carl’s amateur dystopian photography – Fort Smith, Arkansas

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America 2017, #7 & #8, Dead Factories Freezing My Worn Guts

These are not

the silly unem-

ployed, hidden

darkness ex-

ploiting

fear of dying stark-

ly alone, alone.

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More Dystopia Today from Amateur Carl

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America 2017, #6 — One Day I Was in the Old West in the Middle of An Abandoned Street

There is park-

ing in the rear, but

streets are emp-

ty, screaming

at me to stop short of life,

watch her wander by.

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Another Dystopia Today picture from amateur Carl.

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America 2017, #5, “My Dedication to the Good Failed Too Many times”

They warned me —

Behave, man, do not

scream at the

drunks when you’re

drunk, maintain your head, or we’ll

paint and board you up.

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America 2017, #4 – Cackling Steeples

Crown darkens

forges impressions,

towering,

glaringly

laughing at insanity,

squashing my tiny mind.

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More Dystopia Today from Carl the Amateur.

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Another Day, When After the Fireworks, I Knew I Was Worthless

You looked through

the windows blocking

my soul, tres-

passing, vi-

olating love, wiping the

thought, trashing heaven.

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Not-so-dystopian today, amateur Carl’s repossessed America. America 2017 #3.

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America 2017, #2, Digging Empty Channels

When the cre-

vice maims my confi-

dence, and ti-

ny beasts crawl,

raging against my peaceful

love, shadows kill me.

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More Dystopia Today from Carl the Amateur

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I Try Not to Slip Away from Who I Want to Be

 

We fixed you,

made you modern.

What would the windows do

when you have aluminum?

 

And lines, old lines, tan split by old,

above-ground lines, split by a

telephone pole, hand-carved sitting

by the door that would not allow you in

unless you showed your whole face

in the tiny box.

 

Oh but we opened a nice front

on the side and more aluminum

and now there are sadly-ripped papers

glued and taped to that window,

 

that door and the painting

on the window

look so stale, as if to be dead.

 

We gave you plenty of spots

but you sit there with

empty slices of bored, and

sleepy gravel,

waiting for action,

waiting for

the brightness of the energy

we need. And then,

 

and then,

and then,

would you watch that concrete

on the front?

 

Did we fix you, old man, or what?

No more curves or gaps or carvings.

We gave you 50s slab,

and if you don’t like it,

bang your head against that slithery, slimy wall.

 

until you bleed,

and the aluminum

laughs at you again and again.

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