beneath these suburb palaces

My thoughts grow cold and impotent, 

and colourless, in time

They wither like the lowest hanging apples 

on the family tree

when guilt and shame and pent up rage

resurface under charcoaled seeds

the rot bellow these murky roots

informs a life of crime

A subterranean poverty

beneath these suburb palaces

for uncastrated phalluses

of mice and men alike

These partial insecurities

supply the competition

which supposed golden purities

are always bound to pay