The mallrats cling to clothing and
unconscious media like under-developed
chaos and overdo assignments,
processing every ambition,
nothing’s enough painted on every face.
Full circles, clutching walkers,
alert and prepared, intense,
as if every moment precious,
bench squatters and calamine abusers,
a channeling egress of lofty thoughts.
A litany of posture, desperate for respect,
(like apples) bobbing for metaphors,
choking back humility with over populated
worth and (forgone) delusions.
High-rise Suits a parking maze away,
kept assets on sinewy wrists,
power-tie illusions, and hardhearted regulators,
monuments to a frail society.
Guilt laid out like a prim and proper buffet,
a wake, (of sorts)
celebrating the demise of consequence,
outlaws of conscience, suspended, irresponsible,
subjective clones held face down in the gutter.