02-16-2015, 06:41 AM
Revised:
Regrowth
of lost or destroyed parts or organs,
the always-ten-years-away cure for out modern vacuousness.
I watch this regeneration,
scrambling, scraping, tripping in search
of what we have lost.
We are the new lost generation.
Hundreds, thousands, millions of individuals
shining a light on an absence foreseen in the future:
of success, of a two car garage and a family of four.
They, we, are the new howlers.
We crave:
for beatings, a fuck-up,
police brutality,
institutionalized racism,
an environmental tipping point,
bloated children with Giardia,
economic decline,
rises in drug use,
human inequality,
sexist television ads,
loud and sad and reverberating alarm clocks,
human trafficking,
some sense of overall injustice.
We are the modern beatniks:
like Burroughs, and Kerouac, and Ginsberg,
stuffing ourselves into a teensy purple cock ring,
with the aspiration of breaking its plastic edges through our
perspiration.
The ring squeezes our vitality, turning it blue,
squeezing out white, liquid, beautiful sadness.
The tip of our cocks now write poems and novels and how-to manuals,
searching for a fight, something combative.
We beat on, now against the current of a manmade wave pool,
ceaselessly, into our past,
sullying our creation,
tying our nooses,
swallowing our pills,
slashing, cutting, bleeding, scarring our wrists,
crying into our personal sink.
Fighting against all the racism and the starving children and
forcibly employed sex workers, our masses are smothered in a massive pillow,
stained with our own drool.
We only know to proceed by rending the pillow,
nestling in it's threads and feathers,
resting our heads, sleeplessly.
Regrowth
of lost or destroyed parts or organs,
the always-ten-years-away cure for out modern vacuousness.
I watch this regeneration,
scrambling, scraping, tripping in search
of what we have lost.
We are the new lost generation.
Hundreds, thousands, millions of individuals
shining a light on an absence foreseen in the future:
of success, of a two car garage and a family of four.
They, we, are the new howlers.
We crave:
for beatings, a fuck-up,
police brutality,
institutionalized racism,
an environmental tipping point,
bloated children with Giardia,
economic decline,
rises in drug use,
human inequality,
sexist television ads,
loud and sad and reverberating alarm clocks,
human trafficking,
some sense of overall injustice.
We are the modern beatniks:
like Burroughs, and Kerouac, and Ginsberg,
stuffing ourselves into a teensy purple cock ring,
with the aspiration of breaking its plastic edges through our
perspiration.
The ring squeezes our vitality, turning it blue,
squeezing out white, liquid, beautiful sadness.
The tip of our cocks now write poems and novels and how-to manuals,
searching for a fight, something combative.
We beat on, now against the current of a manmade wave pool,
ceaselessly, into our past,
sullying our creation,
tying our nooses,
swallowing our pills,
slashing, cutting, bleeding, scarring our wrists,
crying into our personal sink.
Fighting against all the racism and the starving children and
forcibly employed sex workers, our masses are smothered in a massive pillow,
stained with our own drool.
We only know to proceed by rending the pillow,
nestling in it's threads and feathers,
resting our heads, sleeplessly.