May 08, 2002 | 1:08 PM

This city is to me a dead thing. A corpse wrapped in christmas lights, having been strangled by its own bloated wealth and endless pursuance of amusement.

See the green line wheeze up and down Com Ave, trust fund frat brats hanging off the sides with their Dave Mathews Band t-shirts and proverbial white hats, cellphones glued to their ears�far less intelligent and resourceful than the industrious rats burrowing beneath the B-tain tracks.

Look at Southie and Dorchester and Rozzy and all the weathered folks who�ve hunkered down their whole lives in the same fucking place trying to keep the blacks and jews and gays from ruining the neighborhood. Pronouncing the word �car� incorrectly and sending their kids off to be molested everyday by kindly Father Whossits at the local parish.

Look at the art gurls and boys �studying� at Emerson and Berklee and Mass Art , dreaming of fame and credibility, smoking lots of dope on their parent�s dime. Manufacturing derivative homages to generic heroes, sucking off and feeding each others� missplaced egotism, convincing themselves they�ll soon be starz of stage, screen, and literature. Guess where you�ll be next year, darlin�? Temping for ten bucks an hour. But don�t worry�at least you�ll have ascended one level on the indie street cred game. It�s way cooler to work for the man and hate it than pull tubes in your overpriced dormroom bitching about the White Stripes� new fan base.

There�s so much turnover and yet it�s always the same people. The city is a soundstage. It is cardboard and plastic and push pins and hot glue. It is dismantled every September and pieced back together. The cast changes but the roles remain the same.

I think I�ve just broken up with a city.