Review: Arcade Fire – The Suburbs (III)
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Neck tie filled accidentally in some way dazed
lines of hope anthems getting sweaty
bespectacled noses oily and open and receptive to new sighs.
These sounds grand scaled so tulip garden so there pollens and sneezes.
Eat this Ford on the lawn front. Superbly cut grass,
a man-made paradise pared down to one abode. To the abdomen!
Nothing suburban about this high mind. This strict fissure
radiates kisses such that you bet blisses on a sway.
Heard it? I seen it. Some contraption half-remembered
perhaps a vested forgetfulness at work, a gaudy ambiance, too
universal to touch the lawns gnomes the pavements elves
the shopping cart babies
yet tender in mind.
Fuzzy like a specific beer on a favorite summer.
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About the Author
Jere is not from Chicago. Nor is he from Parts Unknown. But he sure loves to hear things. Follow him on Twitter! Email this Author | All posts by Jere
