Glue, it’s the social illusion

They took us out to green pastures when we were young. Gentle folds of fragrant earth open to us, long warm roads winding to focal points beneath the horizon; wheat fields expansive. Open. Blue skies and the right to die beneath a willow with no one’s name. The dark mysteries of night and the thousand specks that beckoned us to the vast possibilities of life, out here in the frontier land. Textbooks’ covered wagons and dreams imprinted on pupils. Let the pupae bloom their wings. Scythes in our left hands, pens in our right. Honesty: what the mighty fought and died for. Tunes of freedom on the nightly news, red white and blue over the colonies and the untamed West and the Cadillac coupes that flew the ‘50s birds from their nests and the conservative… They pointed at green pastures when we were young. Danced naked unabashed, told us it was in the social fabric. We must not have read the final chapters. We didn’t commit to rote memory the organization of the indexed dates and names and categorical procedures for dictating the proper enunciations of freedom in this valley. We must’ve skipped some pages. There are lights inset behind the fabric of the dome, glow blue day sky; relax and enjoy the childhood spent spa-soaking the suburban expense — the pastures carved in grid-wise greed, stare up at the midnight specks of the dimmed-down lights of the dome. Sweat-shop saunas: success by the width of a hand-held; virtue by the desk jockeys beneath your feet. Climb the tower stairs of gold. Dollars glow neodymium green in shadowed bank vaults on computer screens and this is your pasture — run free. Raised on textbook patriotic histories, speak your tongue free, but know they’ve done no wrong. Your desk in preschool is not your desk in grade school is not your desk in college is not your desk on the fifteenth floor of JP Morgan. Starve now your organs; hear the children dying: In the honest candlelight of shakeboard cabins, breathe more deeply the binding’s glue and forsake the god-damned questioning — What shit still holds this together?

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11 comments

  1. oldepunk · June 16

    Reblogged this on RamJet Poetry and commented:
    Mick is a genius folks

    Like

  2. Allie · June 16

    This is hardhitting, poetic, and visceral!

    Like

  3. Max Meunier · June 16

    this is fucking cool. and hard-hitting. great metaphors and poignant message

    Like

  4. Sudden Denouement · June 17

    Reblogged this on Sudden Denouement Literary Collective and commented:
    Mick Hugh/Mick’s Neon Fog

    Like

  5. jasperkerkauwriting · June 23

    Caught up in life and nearly slept on this. Brilliant work Mick. You are still a fucking gangster.

    Like

    • MickHugh · June 24

      Still! …
      I don’t know where I’ve gone. But I need my act in one piece again cus I’m still collecting followers without ever posting anything.
      Fuck. Dude. I’ve turned to a corporate cubicle and life has never been more bland.

      To everyone who reads here, I love you all, and swear to the great rhythm of the unfathomable that I am getting my ass back to Neon Fogging.

      It’s a promise, because life without it turns to soot.

      Peace. Liberty. Anger.

      Like

  6. What a hard hitting stream of poetic consciousness.

    This is brilliant writing and my cup of tea. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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