The Carcass

In this landscape, lies a nest made of brown brittle leaves, cracked asphalt, and tire flattened filters this creature, stands broad shouldered and stupid with a flat face and eyes open so wide they are windows offering a glimpse into the bones of a building. Yet there is a maw so wide and welcoming, as if by design we wanted to be trapped like Jonah, deep inside the festering stomach of a dying Leviathan. The air inside hangs stagnancy like meat from a butcher’s hook For years, no atom has moved an inch, not even the neon would dare to appeal to its bright nature. This cursed Frankenstein, this ghost of a golem stays stuck in a vacuum of time, doomed to the disease we all lovingly call nostalgia. Down the throat is a linoleum tract, the pathway echoed out Conversations, a background hum Where Marcy would meet Chaz at Corndog Palace Little Marcus would suck Slimer’s fruit based concentrate Aerosol spray coated the shelves full of the endless adolescent days Here we were meant to forever wade through the swimming crowd soaking in drum machines and vaporwave Now just a concrete carcass, you suburban eyesore the corpse of Victor Gruen’s idea that could have been so much more.