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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 10, 2010

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Submitted: September 10, 2010



Children of a moderately industrialized miscarriage; urban class, seclused by the bourgeois which has forced you to live and breathe in vain just to meditate. Your lovers are the tired descendants of old fighters, ideologues of a 50 cent coin. Supporters and opponents of the sanitized naphthalene wardrobe. Wondering aimlessly in your imperative urban ghetto, trying for a living and discovering your fake paradise. Monotonously walking around your meaningless labors, and the lost dreams, that you do not want to see, and remember. You take life and rejoice in the sorrow and suffering of your members and rest upon a false peace, before it once again disturbed by the masters who're keeping you strings. You're a doll made of porcelain in a puppet show, ready to collapse and to entice you.

 You're an actress in a peripatetic troupe where you're acting in the same play, without beginning, middle and end in a theater without spectators. Struggling to keep things as they are; far away from the surprises, emotions and contrasts. Choking and pointing the finger, mocking on anything outside your sterile and decadent thought. Preached screaming that you're deeply religious and faithful to traditions, and when the time comes you're supporting them, but you deeply know, that you do not really adopt, and believe them, but basically you denounce them.
Now stripped of any faith, loyalty and hope, you're beginning full with self sarcasm to consume with a disproportionate rage and fury, your flesh.

How beautiful it appears from afar your destruction. How beautiful sound in my ears your inarticulate cries. Do not forget that I was one of your kind. Do not forget that I was bending my head towards your useless bosses. Now I woke up or at least I'm not sleeping inside your rotten womb. Do not be fooled these words, do not come from the base of a silly, fossilized and independent subculture. They arise from the truth, which slowly but surely like a spider, weaves the web, inside me.
Left again at your fate, dropping the burnt flesh in your gutter, taking along with you and those who hadn't had the privilege of waking up quickly and manage to come out before your great destruction and ridicule. I feel sorry just for them, and I'm happy just for the end of the well-presented fraud which you'd accepted cordial and lived by it; in it. I'm sorry also for my inability, so far, to give a lead for that disaster, because I was surpassed by your mentors.

Glad to see your children hitherto laughed ironically in front of my face, now sinking in sorrow and anguish. Glad to see your castles one after another collapse, as the waves of the possible change of circumstances swept them away, they we castles made of sand, not castles built on solid foundations.Resigning now and trying to save, unsuccessfully of course, whatever you possesed. It is quite irritating to the sadistic bosses to watch this. It is quite hedonistic to see you trying to go out to the surface and breathe while you're faced with a layer of ice that has covered it.

Urban futility, well-dressed maked up lady, you're living in a poor and small shed, satisfying your misery, by looking lustful and Narcissistic yourself, through your dusty mirror. Your sexually operated Bourgeoisie masters are punching with such power the rusty nails in your palms and crucify you. Spitting your blood on the world's cross for years now,  you're carrying on your back and looking up to the sky, waiting for the divine care. You're singing a poem, a prayer, which in these last moments you brought up to your mind, seeking the aim of the Divine entity.While you were so long indifferent to its existence, you're seeking now salvation with such expectation for an upcoming resurrection. On the cross waiting anxiously you begin to feel the pain from the wounds in your bruised body, entreating your masters not to torture you anymore and download you. They ignoring your calls, while placing salt in open, full of flies and worms, wounds, causing you even more and unbearable pain.

This is your punishment urban class. This is the ultimate blame that you need, because you had learned to kill your idols which you had love and grew up and later buried with your own hands while they were still alive. The end is coming urban class. Waiting for your pieta is futile.

Do not wait, it won't come.

On the cross of martyrdom you will become food for vultures, until your bony remains fall to earth and wipe out all memory of your pityfull existence...

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