Talking ‘bout My Gen, gen, gen, gen-gene—ah-ration

[Erthona]

Talking ‘bout My Gen, gen, gen, gen-gene—ah-ration


Ya see...it all started after the "war to end all wars", WWII. “H-O-O-R-A-H!”
Men who’re over there, soon, were over here: now that the fighting was through.
Promised reward anticipated, they'd not be balked from being mated:
all breedable girls found themselves quickly wed, bed, and impregnated.
Copulation–population, at twelve o’clock high, war babies "BOOMED!"
once out they sucked and sucked until there was not a thing left to consume!
Penetrations unbridled, gestation unrivaled, signaled the doom
of my generation: we arrived, thinking to thrive, but found no room.
Our birth: an un-revelation, to them: we were a de-generation.
To our needs deaf, was their avarice of mother’s milk mastication;
though thirstily arrived, we were faux-fated by their greed to stay dry,
it’s hard to make bricks, with air and dry spit, no matter how hard you try,
naught left for us, no verse or chorus, not one little musical crumb,
they said, “You’re second rated, degraded, generally Blind, Deaf and Dumb.
If they wanted—they took it; felt good—they did it: for them it was great,
despoiled the canvas, none to paint, when it was time for us to create.
So because of them our creativity was collectively squeezed,
just like a cunning linguist caught unawares, between two fleshy knees.

Before we started, they’d earlier won, been there and back, already done,
if a contest where trophies were won, we had a grand total of none.
Unless you thought that counting our part in BIG HAIR BANDS was right and fair,
why…if you counted the physics of sheer hair mass, we’d beat them right there!
We also had Travolta, the Bee Gees and “Saturday Night Fever.”
They said, “Newman—McQueen; Joplin—Hendrix; Hair—Psycho and The Beaver.”
Quietly: “Disco was big, but that’s a topic I’d as soon pass by!
I don’t remember too many crying tears when it finally died.”
KC—Gaynor, Summer and Ross, left up to me, I’d toss the whole lot,
Afro’s, platforms, boob tubes, tank tops even David Hasselhoff was hot!
The Eagles—Aerosmith and Pink Floyd; Queen—Elton John deserve a pass,
yet, "Yellow Brick Road" "Candle in the Wind" were hardly classical gas!
Maybe Springsteen, they said he was going to be the next Bob Dylan,
but he is not even the “Boss” unless Clarence Clemons is willing.
We were a sad pathetic generation, like Knights in White Satin,
they say, we should have not ever existed, but some how we happened.

We were proud to collect and never put away, high priced concert tees;
wore shorts too short, our hair in a Mullet, and socks pulled up to our knees.
We had no social agenda, framework, or plan, I don’t think we cared,
like Peter Frampton, we had no real substance just illusion and air.
As to our values: they were Spartanly simple, decidedly droll,
not hard to remember, our motto was catchy, drugs—sex—rock & roll!
They were the hippies, we were the freaks, tossing free love, we kept the sex.
They took drugs to find what they did, we did too, but liked being stoned the best.
Above all else, we loved rock and roll, though they say ours wasn’t as good,
but long before rap, with our sound turned up loud we cruised the neighborhood.
I guess it’s true, our bands just couldn’t compete with the Beatles and Stones,
our groups were those like Kansas and Boston, and other big hair band clones.
We had no cell phones, PC’s or anything that resembled the net,
and television had just three channels, cable hadn’t found us yet,
but one thing no one has had before or since were CB’s in their ride:
“Breaker, one nine” “What’s your handle,” ‘til sunspots came out and CB's died.

That was it probably, our claim to fame, a toy no one remembers.
The sixties: a bonfire, a roaring flame, and we it’s faded embers.
Leftovers: We were the red-headed step children, the second born male,
no one ever cared or even noticed if we succeeded or failed.
Yet in life, it’s sometimes the turtle who wins out by more than a hare,
and if hunger’s the criteria for this race, we’ll always be there,
and what is at the moment by my generation viewed as a curse,
as often happens the fates respective to each, may one day reverse,
because they say, gold ever sinks and always to the top does shit float,
so there is yet a chance of being more than just a sixties footnote.


–Erthona


©2008

[Brownlie]

Talking ‘bout My Gen, gen, gen, gen-gene—ah-ration

Quite a bit of writing you've got here, but I'll do my best with it.

Ya see...it all started after the "war to end all wars", WWII. “H-O-O-R-A-H!”
Men who’re over there, soon, were over here: now that the fighting was through.
Promised reward anticipated, they'd not be balked from being mated:
all breedable girls found themselves quickly wed, bed, and impregnated.
Copulation–population, at twelve o’clock high, war babies "BOOMED!"
once out they sucked and sucked until there was not a thing left to consume! -- This statement seems pretty true.

Penetrations unbridled, gestation unrivaled, signaled the doom
of my generation: we arrived, thinking to thrive, but found no room.
Our birth: an un-revelation, to them: we were a de-generation.
To our needs deaf, was their avarice of mother’s milk mastication;
though thirstily arrived, we were faux-fated by their greed to stay dry,
it’s hard to make bricks, with air and dry spit, no matter how hard you try,
naught left for us, no verse or chorus, not one little musical crumb,
they said, “You’re second rated, degraded, generally Blind, Deaf and Dumb.
If they wanted—they took it; felt good—they did it: for them it was great,
despoiled the canvas, none to paint, when it was time for us to create.
So because of them our creativity was collectively squeezed,
just like a cunning linguist caught unawares, between two fleshy knees. --- I think the poem gains more traction in the concrete imagery. There also seems to be a lot of themes repeated.

Before we started, they’d earlier won, been there and back, already done,
if a contest where trophies were won, we had a grand total of none. -- There are a lot of anapests in here so you do get the Dr.Seuss thing (anapestic meter is actually a pretty good challenge)
Unless you thought that counting our part in BIG HAIR BANDS was right and fair, -- You have that internal rhyme again, but you lose traction without the anapests
why…if you counted the physics of sheer hair mass, we’d beat them right there! -- This line seems to be communicating that it's trying to fit a meter
We also had Travolta, the Bee Gees and “Saturday Night Fever.”
They said, “Newman—McQueen; Joplin—Hendrix; Hair—Psycho and The Beaver.”
Quietly: “Disco was big, but that’s a topic I’d as soon pass by!
I don’t remember too many crying tears when it finally died.” -- This line is very well done.
KC—Gaynor, Summer and Ross, left up to me, I’d toss the whole lot,
Afro’s, platforms, boob tubes, tank tops even David Hasselhoff was hot! -- you've got some spondees in this line but it all works out well rhythmically
The Eagles—Aerosmith and Pink Floyd; Queen—Elton John deserve a pass, -- The proper nouns to fit a meter is a good touch, though I think pink Floyd is a spondee which you may have taken into consideration
yet, "Yellow Brick Road" "Candle in the Wind" were hardly classical gas! -- I'm not sure what meter your working in but I think you are working in one. if it is iambic you run into a problem with the word "classical."
Maybe Springsteen, they said he was going to be the next Bob Dylan, -- This appears to be a trochaic line that's not so bad.

but he is not even the “Boss” unless Clarence Clemons is willing.
We were a sad pathetic generation, like Knights in White Satin,
they say, we should have not ever existed, but some how we happened. -- not ever is a bit redundant


We were proud to collect and never put away, high priced concert tees;
wore shorts too short, our hair in a Mullet, and socks pulled up to our knees. -- our hair in a mullet seems to have problems with subject verb agreement

We had no social agenda, framework, or plan, I don’t think we cared,
like Peter Frampton, we had no real substance just illusion and air.
As to our values: they were Spartanly simple, decidedly droll, -- you're piling up the anapests again which seem to give the poem a flippant feel which can be good if intended.
not hard to remember, our motto was catchy, drugs—sex—rock & roll!
They were the hippies, we were the freaks, tossing free love, we kept the sex. -- we kept the sex seems a little sloppy though it is a funny sentiment.
They took drugs to find what they did, we did too, but liked being stoned the best. -- there are some abstractions like drugs that can be specified. If you play with some specifics you might get some good lines. However, the whole line feels like it can be condensed.

Above all else, we loved rock and roll, though they say ours wasn’t as good,
but long before rap, with our sound turned up loud we cruised the neighborhood.
I guess it’s true, our bands just couldn’t compete with the Beatles and Stones,
our groups were those like Kansas and Boston, and other big hair band clones.
We had no cell phones, PC’s or anything that resembled the net,
and television had just three channels, cable hadn’t found us yet, -- You may want to remedy these summation statements into parts of the poem that relay new meaning

but one thing no one has had before or since were CB’s in their ride:
“Breaker, one nine” “What’s your handle,” ‘til sunspots came out and CB's died. -- This line is pretty good.


That was it probably, our claim to fame, a toy no one remembers.
The sixties: a bonfire, a roaring flame, and we it’s faded embers. -- Not a bad line here.
Leftovers: We were the red-headed step children, the second born male, -- You might want to replace the cliché with something more original, though I suppose clichés can be ok once in awhile.

no one ever cared or even noticed if we succeeded or failed.
Yet in life, it’s sometimes the turtle who wins out by more than a hare,
and if hunger’s the criteria for this race, we’ll always be there,
and what is at the moment by my generation viewed as a curse,
as often happens the fates respective to each, may one day reverse,
because they say, gold ever sinks and always to the top does shit float, -- There are some real problems with the word "does" in this line. The whole construction about shit floating seems to be a linguistic inversion.
so there is yet a chance of being more than just a sixties footnote.


–Erthona


©2008

Overall, I liked the piece and it seems ambitious due to its length and apparent conformity to meter. The idea of consumption as a feeding infant and related to consumer goods was interesting. I liked some lines I highlighted and would like the piece even more if some of the awkward language was cleaned up and some of the end rhymes were made more natural. The proper nouns can be hard to work with, but I think you did a pretty good job with them. Thanks for posting. Hopefully I was able to give you some useful feedback here.

[Erthona]

-- not ever is a bit redundant -agreed should read "we should never have existed"
_____________________________________________________________________________________
our hair in a mullet seems to have problems with subject verb agreement -true, "mullet" should be plural.
_____________________________________________________________________________________________

"They took drugs to find what they did, we did too, but liked being stoned the best. -- there are some abstractions like drugs that can be specified. If you play with some specifics you might get some good lines. However, the whole line feels like it can be condensed."

I agree, it is an awkward line, needs work.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"because they say, gold ever sinks and always to the top does shit float, -- There are some real problems with the word "does" in this line. The whole construction about shit floating seems to be a linguistic inversion."

The inversion was purposeful, but you may be correct. The idea was to give it an archaic feel, as though it were axiomatic. I'll think on it.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Thanks B. You have given me some good suggestions to tighten up this poem. I appreciate the effort as this is a bit long to slough through. OH yes, it is more or less iambic free verse, however, I threw in other meters for emphasis, which is why it varies. You did not seem to put off by it, so I will consider it a minimal success.

Thanks again,


Dale

[tectak]

Talking ‘bout My Gen, gen, gen, gen-gene—ah-ration


Ya see...it all started after the "war to end all wars", WWII. “H-O-O-R-A-H!”
Men who’re over there, soon, were over here: now that the fighting was through.
Promised reward anticipated, they'd not be balked from being mated:
all breedable girls found themselves quickly wed, bed, and impregnated.
Copulation–population, at twelve o’clock high, war babies "BOOMED!"
once out they sucked and sucked until there was not a thing left to consume!
Penetrations unbridled, gestation unrivaled, signaled the doom
of my generation: we arrived, thinking to thrive, but found no room.
Our birth: an un-revelation, to them: we were a de-generation.
To our needs deaf, was their avarice of mother’s milk mastication;
though thirstily arrived, we were faux-fated by their greed to stay dry,
it’s hard to make bricks, with air and dry spit, no matter how hard you try,
naught left for us, no verse or chorus, not one little musical crumb,
they said, “You’re second rated, degraded, generally Blind, Deaf and Dumb.
If they wanted—they took it; felt good—they did it: for them it was great,
despoiled the canvas, none to paint, when it was time for us to create.
So because of them our creativity was collectively squeezed,
just like a cunning linguist caught unawares, between two fleshy knees.

Before we started, they’d earlier won, been there and back, already done,
if a contest where trophies were won, we had a grand total of none.
Unless you thought that counting our part in BIG HAIR BANDS was right and fair,
why…if you counted the physics of sheer hair mass, we’d beat them right there!
We also had Travolta, the Bee Gees and “Saturday Night Fever.”
They said, “Newman—McQueen; Joplin—Hendrix; Hair—Psycho and The Beaver.”
Quietly: “Disco was big, but that’s a topic I’d as soon pass by!
I don’t remember too many crying tears when it finally died.”
KC—Gaynor, Summer and Ross, left up to me, I’d toss the whole lot,
Afro’s, platforms, boob tubes, tank tops even David Hasselhoff was hot!
The Eagles—Aerosmith and Pink Floyd; Queen—Elton John deserve a pass,
yet, "Yellow Brick Road" "Candle in the Wind" were hardly classical gas!
Maybe Springsteen, they said he was going to be the next Bob Dylan,
but he is not even the “Boss” unless Clarence Clemons is willing.
We were a sad pathetic generation, like Knights in White Satin,
they say, we should have not ever existed, but some how we happened.

We were proud to collect and never put away, high priced concert tees;
wore shorts too short, our hair in a Mullet, and socks pulled up to our knees.
We had no social agenda, framework, or plan, I don’t think we cared,
like Peter Frampton, we had no real substance just illusion and air.
As to our values: they were Spartanly simple, decidedly droll,
not hard to remember, our motto was catchy, drugs—sex—rock & roll!
They were the hippies, we were the freaks, tossing free love, we kept the sex.
They took drugs to find what they did, we did too, but liked being stoned the best.
Above all else, we loved rock and roll, though they say ours wasn’t as good,
but long before rap, with our sound turned up loud we cruised the neighborhood.
I guess it’s true, our bands just couldn’t compete with the Beatles and Stones,
our groups were those like Kansas and Boston, and other big hair band clones.
We had no cell phones, PC’s or anything that resembled the net,
and television had just three channels, cable hadn’t found us yet,
but one thing no one has had before or since were CB’s in their ride:
“Breaker, one nine” “What’s your handle,” ‘til sunspots came out and CB's died.

That was it probably, our claim to fame, a toy no one remembers.
The sixties: a bonfire, a roaring flame, and we it’s faded embers.
Leftovers: We were the red-headed step children, the second born male,
no one ever cared or even noticed if we succeeded or failed.
Yet in life, it’s sometimes the turtle who wins out by more than a hare,
and if hunger’s the criteria for this race, we’ll always be there,
and what is at the moment by my generation viewed as a curse,
as often happens the fates respective to each, may one day reverse,
because they say, gold ever sinks and always to the top does shit float,
so there is yet a chance of being more than just a sixties footnote.


–Erthona


©2008

Dale,
This needs more time than I have right now. I want to give it my full attention. I will get back.
Best,
tectak

[Erthona]

Thanks Tom, any help or withering comments are appreciated, especially in the area of punctuation where I bow to your superior knowledge and intellectual prowess (and I do mean that sincerely for I know wherein my faults lie, and they are not in the stars. "Strunk & White" has set gathering dust upon my shelf since 1923, must weigh 10 pounds by now. A pity. a comma her, a comma there, and soon you have commas filling up your rear, and soon you are coma-toast!).

Dale

[tectak]

Talking ‘bout My Gen, gen, gen, gen-gene—ah-ration Unless you recall the coupon culture of the fifties it should gen gen gen ER-ation


Ya see...it all started after the "war to end all wars", WWII. “H-O-O-R-A-H!”
Men who’re over there, soon, were over here: now that the fighting was through. Who're stands readily for "Who are" but less so for Who were. Could you bring yourself to write, "Men who were over there, soon were over here: blah blah..."
Promised reward anticipated, they'd not be balked from being mated: "rewards" or it's less than one shag per man
all breedable girls found themselves quickly wed, bed, and impregnated. More correctly "..all breedable girls found themselves bedded or wedded but quick impregnated" Hmmm.
Copulation–population, at twelve o’clock high, war babies "BOOMED!"
once out they sucked and sucked until there was not a thing left to consume! Loving this if only for its clear and truthful statementalism...and if that ain't a word it should be
Penetrations unbridled, gestation unrivaled, signaled the doom
of my generation: we arrived, thinking to thrive, but found no room.
Our birth: an un-revelation, to them: we were a de-generation. Cool and very good but period after revelation.
To our needs deaf, was their avarice of mother’s milk mastication; one of your finest inversions To our needs deaf, was their avarice...Huh? of...Huh? milk mastication. Huh? Masticate your thirst away, chew a nipple every day! Yehah
though thirstily arrived, we were faux-fated by their greed to stay dry,Period
it’s hard to make bricks, with air and dry spit, no matter how hard you try,period
naught left for us, no verse or chorus, not one little musical crumb,Period
they said, “You’re second rated, degraded, generally Blind, Deaf and Dumb. Close the quotes
If they wanted—they took it; felt good—they did it: for them it was great, OK. You are giving me hoops to jump through here. I think this.
If they wanted --they took it. Felt good? They did it:blah blah MORE TO FOLLOW
despoiled the canvas, none to paint, when it was time for us to create.
So because of them our creativity was collectively squeezed,The thems are getting a bit much
just like a cunning linguist caught unawares, between two fleshy knees.

Before we started, they’d earlier won, been there and back, already done, To be honest, anything BUT a comma here. Do you care?
if a contest where trophies were won, we had a grand total of none.If IN a contest?
Unless you thought that counting our part in BIG HAIR BANDS was right and fair,
why…if you counted the physics of sheer hair mass, we’d beat them right there!Sorry about this but counting physics mass just bugs me. I'm not a proper scientist but...
We also had Travolta, the Bee Gees and “Saturday Night Fever.”
They said, “Newman—McQueen; Joplin—Hendrix; Hair—Psycho and The Beaver.”
Quietly: “Disco was big, but that’s a topic I’d as soon pass by!
I don’t remember too many crying tears when it finally died.”
KC—Gaynor, Summer and Ross, left up to me, I’d toss the whole lot,
Afro’s, platforms, boob tubes, tank tops even David Hasselhoff was hot!
The Eagles—Aerosmith and Pink Floyd; Queen—Elton John deserve a pass,deserves
yet, "Yellow Brick Road" "Candle in the Wind" were hardly classical gas!Comma after road...I am past caring...it's all just so much FUUUUNNNNN!!
Maybe Springsteen, they said he was going to be the next Bob Dylan,
but he is not even the “Boss” unless Clarence Clemons is willing.
We were a sad pathetic generation, like Knights in White Satin,
they say, we should have not ever existed, but some how we happened.Structural integrity is now abandoned in favour of hedonistic fervour. Maybe, just maybe, this works

We were proud to collect and never put away, high priced concert tees;
wore shorts too short, our hair in a Mullet, and socks pulled up to our knees.Now. We....wore our hair in a mullet. Hmm. It actually sounds OK to me. We ate our crab in a bun. Yep. It gels. Leave it alone
We had no social agenda, framework, or plan, I don’t think we cared,
like Peter Frampton, we had no real substance just illusion and air.
As to our values: they were Spartanly simple, decidedly droll,
not hard to remember, our motto was catchy, drugs—sex—rock & roll!That explains a lot. Over here it was sex'n'drugs'n'rock'n'roll.
They were the hippies, we were the freaks, tossing free love, we kept the sex.
They took drugs to find what they did, we did too, but liked being stoned the best.
Above all else, we loved rock and roll, though they say ours wasn’t as good,
but long before rap, with our sound turned up loud we cruised the neighborhood.Semi colon after "good" to weakly interfere with the conditionality of the "but"....so weak you could just drop it.
I guess it’s true, our bands just couldn’t compete with the Beatles and Stones,
our groups were those like Kansas and Boston, and other big hair band clones.
We had no cell phones, PC’s or anything that resembled the net,
and television had just three channels, cable hadn’t found us yet,
but one thing no one has had before or since were CB’s in their ride:
“Breaker, one nine” “What’s your handle,” ‘til sunspots came out and CB's died.

That was it probably, our claim to fame, a toy no one remembers.
The sixties: a bonfire, a roaring flame, and we it’s faded embers.I forgive you this cliche as you probably coined it originally and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise
Leftovers: We were the red-headed step children, the second born male,
no one ever cared or even noticed if we succeeded or failed.
Yet in life, it’s sometimes the turtle who wins out by more than a hare,
and if hunger’s the criteria for this race, we’ll always be there,
and what is at the moment by my generation viewed as a curse,
as often happens the fates respective to each, may one day reverse,
because they say, gold ever sinks and always to the top does shit float,Now, this lends a whole new meaning to inversion
so there is yet a chance of being more than just a sixties footnote.
What's not to like?
Best,
tectak

–Erthona


©2008

Dale,
This needs more time than I have right now. I want to give it my full attention. I will get back.
Best,
tectak

[LorettaYoung]

There is the remnant, though fading, that maintains the reins of that generation; those not dead or dull from drugs, still "far out" and crazy after all these years; some values don't bend to social and government pressure, still getting the Led out. Loretta

[Erthona]

Tom,

"and we it’s faded embers.I forgive you this cliche as you probably coined it originally and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise"

Quite right, although I don't like to brag!

"Who're stands readily for "Who are" but less so for Who were. Could you bring yourself to write, "Men who were over there..."

Yes I think you're right, or you were right when you wrote it, but yes, I'll take it on board to eliminate any confusion.

"Sorry about this but counting physics mass just bugs me. I'm not a proper scientist but..." "Hair mass physics" was in vogue during the seventies, but faded when it was discovered that one had to calculate at break-neck speed to account for the volume through time transit. I think it was created/originated by the bass player in Frampton's band...or was it the guitar player from Queen (he does have a degree in physics, not to mention a quantity of hair mass himself").

"The thems are getting a bit much" We shall excise "thems", that is to say taxes thems out of existences. It shall be done...!

Yes to all the grammatical corrections.

"conditionality of the "but"....so weak you could just drop it." Yes, after re-reading it I think so too.

Thanks Tom, much help as always, will take on-board all if not most of your suggestion


Dale

---

LorettaYoung, "There is the remnant, though fading, that maintains the reins of that generation"

Yes it is like the Pirate King said when questioned by Fred-er-rick about "Ruth". "There are the remnants of a fine woman about her..." ...and the beat goes on!


Dale

[ellajam]

Talking ‘bout My Gen, gen, gen, gen-gene—ah-ration


Ya see...it all started after the "war to end all wars", WWII. “H-O-O-R-A-H!”
Men who’re over there, soon, were over here: now that the fighting was through.
Promised reward anticipated, they'd not be balked from being mated:
all breedable girls found themselves quickly wed, bed, and impregnated.
Copulation–population, at twelve o’clock high, war babies "BOOMED!"
once out they sucked and sucked until there was not a thing left to consume!
Penetrations unbridled, gestation unrivaled, signaled the doom
of my generation: we arrived, thinking to thrive, but found no room.
Our birth: an un-revelation, to them: we were a de-generation.
To our needs deaf, was their avarice of mother’s milk mastication;
though thirstily arrived, we were faux-fated by their greed to stay dry,
it’s hard to make bricks, with air and dry spit, no matter how hard you try,
naught left for us, no verse or chorus, not one little musical crumb,
they said, “You’re second rated, degraded, generally Blind, Deaf and Dumb.
If they wanted—they took it; felt good—they did it: for them it was great,
despoiled the canvas, none to paint, when it was time for us to create.
So because of them our creativity was collectively squeezed,
just like a cunning linguist caught unawares, between two fleshy knees.

Before we started, they’d earlier won, been there and back, already done,
if a contest where trophies were won, we had a grand total of none.
Unless you thought that counting our part in BIG HAIR BANDS was right and fair,
why…if you counted the physics of sheer hair mass, we’d beat them right there!
We also had Travolta, the Bee Gees and “Saturday Night Fever.”
They said, “Newman—McQueen; Joplin—Hendrix; Hair—Psycho and The Beaver.”
Quietly: “Disco was big, but that’s a topic I’d as soon pass by!
I don’t remember too many crying tears when it finally died.”
KC—Gaynor, Summer and Ross, left up to me, I’d toss the whole lot,
Afro’s, platforms, boob tubes, tank tops even David Hasselhoff was hot!
The Eagles—Aerosmith and Pink Floyd; Queen—Elton John deserve a pass,
yet, "Yellow Brick Road" "Candle in the Wind" were hardly classical gas!
Maybe Springsteen, they said he was going to be the next Bob Dylan,
but he is not even the “Boss” unless Clarence Clemons is willing.
We were a sad pathetic generation, like Knights in White Satin,
they say, we should have not ever existed, but some how we happened.

We were proud to collect and never put away, high priced concert tees;
wore shorts too short, our hair in a Mullet, and socks pulled up to our knees.
We had no social agenda, framework, or plan, I don’t think we cared,
like Peter Frampton, we had no real substance just illusion and air.
As to our values: they were Spartanly simple, decidedly droll,
not hard to remember, our motto was catchy, drugs—sex—rock & roll!
They were the hippies, we were the freaks, tossing free love, we kept the sex.
They took drugs to find what they did, we did too, but liked being stoned the best.
Above all else, we loved rock and roll, though they say ours wasn’t as good,
but long before rap, with our sound turned up loud we cruised the neighborhood.
I guess it’s true, our bands just couldn’t compete with the Beatles and Stones,
our groups were those like Kansas and Boston, and other big hair band clones.
We had no cell phones, PC’s or anything that resembled the net,
and television had just three channels, cable hadn’t found us yet,
but one thing no one has had before or since were CB’s in their ride:
“Breaker, one nine” “What’s your handle,” ‘til sunspots came out and CB's died.

That was it probably, our claim to fame, a toy no one remembers.
The sixties: a bonfire, a roaring flame, and we it’s faded embers.
Leftovers: We were the red-headed step children, the second born male,
no one ever cared or even noticed if we succeeded or failed.
Yet in life, it’s sometimes the turtle who wins out by more than a hare,
and if hunger’s the criteria for this race, we’ll always be there,
and what is at the moment by my generation viewed as a curse,
as often happens the fates respective to each, may one day reverse,
because they say, gold ever sinks and always to the top does shit float,
so there is yet a chance of being more than just a sixties footnote.


–Erthona


©2008

I haven't been able to go line by line here because I am confused in general. This line "wore shorts too short, our hair in a Mullet, and socks pulled up to our knees." gets me lost as to Who you are talking about. My Generation was one of the songs played by the band that practiced in my basement when I was fifteen. Your boom background sits well as does your followup in explaining the next generation, but I get stuck when you hit the 70s. My generation did not do the mullet, they sort of let that period pass, now it seems to me you're speaking of a different generation and I get stuck.

And no one could ever be another Dylan, every Springsteen fan knows that, including me. Many people are drawn to them both for lyrics, broad musical stretch and the ability to change up their songs in concert, keeps their and the audiences' interest up. But it's only journalists that ever compare any one to Dylan. And Bruce has always been the first to admit he has always stood on the big man's shoulders.

I don't know, I could go on, and on, or just stop now.

But anyway, I'm unclear as to where the narrator sees himself.

Just a dog with a bone, ella.
I still think my generation indeed has a soul.

[ChristopherSea]

Dale, this is some monstrosity to workshop. Since Tom nitpicked the details, I will address some of the macros. I love all of references, but perhaps you have gone too far in your mixture. Your timeline seems off as you dash back and forth across the 60 and 70 decades, even the 80's, where the mullet ruled. The psychedelia never plays well off of disco or Springsteen. Maybe a greater trilogy (60s-70s-80s) would do better justice to your theme.

By the way, are you trying to pull off Daltry's defiant/repressed youth swaggering stutter in that title or splay out a locus of linked genes? A s-s-stutter is usually designated by a first letter repeat like in the Who song: I'm 'just talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-generation.' I'm not certain what you are trying to demonstrate in that odd stutter of a title./Chris

[Erthona]

It's true that the 'mullet" spans generations, but it started (for our concerns) in the 70's. It was edgy in the 70's. The Stones also span the generations.

"By the way, are you trying to pull off Daltry's defiant/repressed youth swaggering stutter in that title or splay out a locus of linked genes? A s-s-stutter is usually designated by a first letter repeat like in the Who song: I'm 'just talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-generation.' I'm not certain what you are trying to demonstrate in that odd stutter of a title."

The answer would be yes. I was going for a bit of irony, using a 1965 song as the title of a poem about the 70's. And yes, I was trying to imitate Daltry's stutter, I was just unsure how I should write it. I didn't really spend much time on that, your way of writing it is probably better.

"Maybe a greater trilogy (60s-70s-80s) would do better justice to your theme." Actually this is the third poem in a series called "generational sketches". "Golden Age" is about the fifties, and "Helter Skelter" is about the sixties. There are probably twenty or more poems I've written under that general title.

"The psychedelia never plays well off of disco or Springsteen." I think maybe you're missing the point, or maybe that sentence doesn't mean what you intended. This is a compare and contrast between the 60's and the 70's, plus I never mentioned "psychedelia". So I'm not sure what you mean

Thanks for putting in the time on this one, it is somewhat big. I'm trying to put these poems to bed, or at least to sleep , so expect to see others from this series in here from time to time.

Thanks again,

Dale

---

ella,

This is talking about the 70's in relation to the 60's. The line about Springsteen is referring to an article in Rolling Stone magazine, where they call Springsteen the next Bob Dylan. So the "they" in "Maybe Springsteen, they said he was going to be the next Bob Dylan" is "Rolling Stone". The speaker is tentative, trying to offer up things from the seventies that compare favorably to the 60's.

"This line "wore shorts too short, our hair in a Mullet, and socks pulled up to our knees." gets me lost as to Who you are talking about." Refers to the "we" at the start of the sentence:

"We were proud to collect and never put away, high priced concert tees"

AKA people who grew up in the seventies.

"My generation did not do the mullet, they sort of let that period pass" in the 70's most rock musicians were wearing Mullets, from Paul McCarthy, to Rod Stewart.

Thanks for the crit,

xoxoxoxo

Dale