Death of a Nation

By Jeremiah Zaeske

The American Dream shot the kids in their sleep

before they had a chance to scream

and we made art on the walls

with our hands smeared in all the fucking blood

The city planners bought up their homes

and sterilized the massacre

so they could sell the bodies on postcards

in their glossy new storefront

If I could rip this nation’s heart out, I’d eat it raw

like a fresh kill, but I think it’d kill me first

or we’d just worship its corpse and I’d be left to die of salmonella

They’re selling us the cures for diseases they wrought

and a fresh coat of paint won’t cover up the rot

or stop the fumes rising up from underneath

You don’t need to tell me freedom isn’t free,

the revolution’s buy 1 get 1 on TV

For 20 bucks they’ll throw in a suicide note on a T-shirt

or some pattern of stolen graffiti,

bleached white to remove the stains

The megachurch went on lockdown

when they heard the flood was coming

I bet they’d call the cops on Jesus if he came busting down the doors

I bet the cops would nail him down with bullets and we’d paint our bodies with his blood

because we ran out of wall space

or maybe we’d pour it down our throats

so it turns into cheap liquor

before feeding him to our children,

still gasping for hope as we drown

Photo by Pawel Janiak on Unsplash

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