Regeneration (Warning: explicit)

[tectak]

Regrowth,
of lost or destroyed parts or organs. I have read this piece  through several times....out loud. There are syntactical problems thoughout. This first sentence, for example. It isn't. As a musing opener it loses impact before the piece starts. This is a pity.
I watch this regeneration,
scrambling, scraping, tripping in search You duck in to Gerund Avenue to emerge transmogrified by the diversion. I becomes we."scraping" is gratuitously chosen without regard for meaning...is assonance everything? To be frank, it is not easy to extract any serious meaning from the opener...you give the impression of having something to say of great import then you make obscurity your god. What is the reader to make of "scrambling, scraping, tripping" as descriptors of a regeneration process OBSERVED (I watch) to be underway? No. Sense is lacking
of  what we have lost.
We, are the new lost generation. No comma. Read out loud
Millions, thousands, hundreds of individuals
shining a light on an absence of something
unknown to them. Again, you cannot avoid cliches by simply destroying the sense. The diminishing numerical cadence leads  nowhere except into a further miasma of murky mystery. How do individuals shine a light...what is the sourceof this light? What on earth does "...on  an absence of something unknown..." Gobbledygook masquerading as profundity. Not taken in
They, we, are the new howlers.
We crave:
yearn for beatings, for a fuck-up,
for police brutality,
for institutionalized racism,
for an environmental tipping point,
for bloated children with Giardia,
for economic decline,
for rises in drug use,
for human inequality,
for sexist television ads,
for loud and sad and reverberating alarm clocks,
for human trafficking,
for some sense of overall injustice. Yes. Quite so. Circa 60 all over again. Ah...those WERE the days
We are the modern beatniks: The poem begins here.
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. Excellent. Quite excellent. More of this, please. For what has gone before...let it go
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,
decrying our creation, decrying is ill chosen
tying our nooses,
swallowing our pills,
slashing, cutting, bleeding, scarring our wrists,
crying into our personal wave pool. wave pool repeat
Squished against all the racism and the starving children and squished weak word
forcibly employed sex workers and confederate flag waving too specific at this late stage. You have passed this point
lunatics, our masses are smothered in a massive pillow,
stained with our own ejaculate. We rip the pillow to threads, recycle the remains,  
buy a new pillow, and rest, sleeplessly.

Lot of good, lot of bad. Does not read well and  I have tried. Copicat verse form from a generation or/and two ago. Pick out the good...it is very good. Drop the bad...it is very bad. This is me liking it.
Best,
tectak