Shoegaze + Suburbia

 

Slowly there’s a scene that celebrates itself,

holds high office of shame, shoplifts grace

from grocery stores and tomorrow’s tin can mess.

 

It’s a scene standing in pride, unfazed by the murmuring

strong-styled neighbourhood

believed

to be energized out of concentrated flowerpots.

 

The suburb sprawl is a basement of employment

hopes, like Monday walks looking for dream pop

and bizarre poetry recitals

along the pavement.

 

Looking for friends who musically trepanned themselves

with shadows of 1994? Insecure shoes often

obscuring the walls, the sonata of chemicals likens

 

heads to garage tires you’ve spared for cool

household principles. I bet you look down,

look down so hard to catch the open light

 

unfurling, like a beef falafel surprising

schoolchildren from Bandra, Mumbai

I earn a living by re-counting poetic lines

 

and make them smell of cardamom.

Carton-shroud livelihood makes a statement.

To live comfortably is to fall in love

 

with euphoria: 100%. Sweetheart of lies—

all right you pay my fines

as I’m down on my knees to defend

 

my eighth-month research on the theory

of shoegaze and how hair cascades

from a culture of unpredictable weather

 

sweated for heaven and death wishes. And if

it’s going to be the last time you cut your losses,

stomach the sound of distortion pedals,

I’d party up again

and call friends of friends of friends

‘till no grass is spotted

at the edge of the tarmac.