Seattle syndrome

My god, when they'd say

We're all the lucky ones

When they'll say

We're the fortunate ones

While here we're stigmatic

Bleeding to the sound of drums.

We are the medicated ones;

The dedicated ones,

Stricken with the Seattle syndrome,

Praying for heroin and heroines

All within the confines of a shot glass.

We are the pretenders

To the bone and satin throne;

I am light suspended,

The anhedonic imbecile,

Symptomatic of the fattened men,

Of weary men.

We are the stricken ones,

The afflicted ones.

Here we are as a thousand suns

At home under the naked trees,

Hand over fist below the king of hearts

And the queen of clubs.

Here we glorify the dying life,

And deify the sullen;

Wasting hours edifying those stricken

All for favor of venerating the dead.

Here we are:

And neither bang nor whimper could

Show us strength in these spring morning rains,

Gray waters thrown together in duffle bags-

So carrion serves to announce our arrival

In thunderclaps and dull roars;

Pale ghosts cast aside

Between the parted waters.

God help us now

For we are the atrophied ones,

Laid to rest among the stone flowers

Before we'd even gone swimming;

Drowned downriver,

They'd put it in the water

At the drone hour.

All this precipitate my growing silence

As I walk out the door

Wearing diamorphine-brand jeans-

All things and more

At our finest hour.