The Stepfordian Country That Knows How To Eviscerate: A Poem

I let death flow into every verse,

Life as much as death, death as much as life,

And you can step away, step back, listen or not.

There is a country.

Where bridges should be a good thing.

Where money should be a good thing.

Man-made. Man-destroyed.

It looks so serene, so good, an as-if-country.

It seems tempting as if it couldn’t fail,

As if it doesn’t fail every single moment.

A bank account where the heart should be.

Things, things, things, where the soul should be.

And nothing else exists.

It is a monster that needs to be fed,

Asks for more, the narcissistic beast, ever-hungry,

The robotic imposition, it never ends,

Robbing you, stripping you of your substance,

It scratches and takes and sucks your heart dry

And gives you money in return,

Be happy and comply, how dare you resist

And criticise, how dare you not fall on your knees

In gratitude, one car, two cars, one house, two houses,

More and more, never enough, bigger and bigger

The emptiness grows, the cancer grows

Where the heart should be, the soul should be,

How dare you call out all the wrongs.

A country where bridges should be a good thing.

A country where mental illness is not a thing.

Where mental health is not a thing.

Are you not a robot yet?

Harder, work harder, buy more, what is taking you so long.

Flowers, bridges, flowers, bridges, statistics, mute ambulances,

Unreported, unreported, embellished, distorted, hush, don’t

You dare, nothing happens, not here, in the country where money

Flows and flows, exists on its own, the sick haven,

Flows into your throat, into the air you breathe, the end of human kindness,

Toxicity, a country, roaring capitalism, human trash in expensive suits,

Why did you sign, sign the contract, premature death, anti-human,

Booking the best spot to be buried, you got it all figured out,

Money, money, money, what do you do in life, money, money, money,

What’s your name, money, money, money, shop after shop after shop,

No place to live, people say it’s Disneyland, be good at everything,

You end up, ending up, young, too young, not good at anything,

Drowning, terrified, somebody wanted to truly live,

And you sucked, and unplugged, and imposed your sickness,

That is not talked about, that doesn’t exist, no, money, money, safety,

Human beings jumping off bridges, broken feet, broken hearts,

Broken spirits, you crush the good, you crush the good,

Hearts, hearts, hearts, you have no place for sensitivity,

Humanness, soulfulness, and flowers are placed on a daily basis

Across bridges, mute ambulances picking up the pieces

Of your failures, you failed, you never question yourself,

Hiding everything that you call weakness, flaws, imperfections,

Souls in cash, hearts in cash, bridges shouldn’t be the end,

It doesn’t exist, you toxic pretenders, building walls,

People must not see, do it in private, please, we don’t care about the

Actual problem, the dysfunctional game we play,

With human beings, everything needs to look presentable,

As if, as if, as if, nothing bad ever happens here,

Hide, shun, hush, shush, don’t say a word,

I don’t know what you’re talking about,

And yet, the gossip gallops, it wasn’t me, yes, it wasn’t me,

And the families with their hearts beating outside of their chests

Are left, are left, are left, with no words of condolences,

With the hush-hush, the walls that are built to protect

The memory of the living, the image, the reputation,

Of the country where nothing goes wrong,

Don’t you dare fix the real problem,

Don’t you dare heal the people

That you drove straight into despair,

The good ones whose hearts wanted to keep beating,

You impose your sickness, building higher walls,

Do it at home where nobody can see,

The statistics grow and hide, the point is

People must not know, must not see,

The point is that all these dead men walking are not the point,

Are not on your radar, are considered sick and unworthy,

And you silently put your signature on the contract,

How much money for your soul, your heart, your substantiality and unfeigned empathy?

Photo by Johannes Rapprich on

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