Paul E Sexton, Poetry


Cul-De-Sac at the End of the World

Its not that I truly believe
that all cul-de-sac track home suburban streets
are evil,
although most are likely very bad.
Its just that the dark black spot
that I grew up on,
is likely unsurpassed
as freakish conglomerations
of opressive negative energy go.
Melancholy, I still recall
the faces of the children.
Empty, already embittered,
without substance.
They moved like hyenas
through pebble topped gravel streets
and green, green St. Augustine
standing water drainage ditches.
There is not much to say about them,
except that they were bad,
very bad.
Along with their very bad parents
screaming in streets
and gulping down canned beer
in lawn chairs,
roosted in front
of ugly carbon copy floor plan cages.
We all seemed trapped together,
forsaken by circumstance.
Coerced by fate
into a 10 year
Poseidon Adventure nightmare.
In a place that was not just
on the edge of a city,
or end of a street,
but on the very edge of
at the end of the world.
They are always with me
these tortured mannequins,
these bastions of cruelty,
especially in the bad times
when the end seems near.