Dylan Love: editorial gun for hire.

The Loathe Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,
while the stars are blotted out from the night sky
from all the light pollution that destroys natural beauty;
Let us fight our way through rush-hour streets,
Dodging stuttering aesthetes
As they cream their jeans over the latest Marina Abramovic stunt
“Did you see her shoot that horse? It was brilliant.”
A schizophrenic in tedious self-argument
His money spent
He asks the overwhelming question
“Can I have a dollar?”
If enough people say yes, he’ll soon be a baller.

In the room everyone sweats and glows
A/C’s busted, not enough airflow.

The smell of hot garbage that rubs its back upon windowpanes
The yellow smoke that contrasts with bloodstains.
Realtors lick their lips, turn up the corners of their mouths
Jacking up the rent on a pre-war townhouse.
Their religion the short con to part you from your deposit
The perpetual subtext of “Sign this lease or shove it.
Time is money and a month’s three grand.
Pony up the rent or we’ll cut off your hands.”

And indeed there will be time
For hot garbage stink to invade your home
To the point that you hallucinate garden gnomes
Baking trash cookies in your kitchen.
Loneliness becomes you, so you go on a date.
You’re right on time, she’s 20 minutes late.
She’s a cliché, you’re emotionally encumbered
The lady’s “spiritual” with an om tattoo.
You got her number.

Doomsday sidewalk preachers, nightwalking street creatures,
“Make you feel good for twenty dollas.”
No, thank you, ma’am. My morality forbids.
“Ah, come on, son. How else I gon’ feed my kids?”
Atomic-volume music in jam-packed night clubs
Drinking alone on a holiday
Excuse me, but I’m quite tired out.
Is this what passes as fun nowadays?

And indeed there will be time
To nap in the city that never sleeps,
Rest is a gift that’s heaven-sent
Just don’t forget to pony up the rent.