Regeneration (Warning: explicit)

[fromcancertocapricorn]

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.

[rayheinrich]

Read Erthona below.
He's right, I'm mistakenly enamored, and fromcancertocapricorn has a presumption I find promising.

[Erthona]

Not a bad attempt at beat. I note the close similarity to "Howl." I think that if it were lined out like Ginsberg it might make a better poem as long as cadence is attended to. Such a grandiose and hyperbolic poem needs longer lines.  

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,"

"Regrowth of lost or destroyed parts or organs.
I watch this regeneration,
scrambling, scraping, tripping in search of what we have lost.
We, are the new lost generation."

I am not quite enamored of this as ray, as it is still a little too imitative of beat. Were the writer able to take this (hopefully) a little farther to the nouveau beat (sorry, couldn't resist the pun), it would be quite an accomplishment indeed. I see you are also a fan of Henry Miller, are you attempting to become a "gangster poet?"  

I like the cock ring part, but the recapitulation at the end of the poem is a bit boring.

I think all of the "for" at the beginning of a number of middle lines could be dropped. Repetition rarely benefits a poem and if one excises it the poem most often improves, usually by quite a lot. Having all of those "for" does not enhance the lines and is disruptive to the reading.    

I like this line:

"Millions, thousands, hundreds of individuals"

However, I am not sure that reversing the order is necessarily a benefit. It does cause the line to drag which is probably not a good thing as this poem is fairly high energy. At the same time, the following lines seem a bit lazy.

"shining a light on an absence of something
unknown to them."

It would be better to tell the reader what this something is and then tell the reader that the people do not know that what they are searching for is this "thing." Otherwise it is a bait and switch which is especially disruptive as the reader is never informed about what this "thing" is. This  effects the readers in a negative way, even if the reader is not consciously aware of it. Such little bumps as this can turn a poem from good to mediocre. 

Although there is still grist for the mill, this is in novice so I shall stop.

Dale

[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

[Erthona]

"We only no" know

[Leah S.]

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: Either 'an absence foreseen' OR 'a future absence' would work better and deliver you from wordiness.
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, "Crave for" is wrong. One "craves" a thing. I crave chocolate. One HAS a craving. I have a craving for chocolate, right now.
police brutality,
institutionalized racism,
an environmental tipping point,
bloated children with Giardia,
economic decline,
rises in drug use,
human inequality, Leave off "human" it's redundant.
sexist television ads,
loud and sad and reverberating alarm clocks, "and sad and reverberating" is excess. You could replace "loud" with "reverberating" but I would just leave it with "loud," or a more evocative synonym for "loud."
human trafficking,
some sense of overall injustice. We crave "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 "Hoping to break its plastic edges" would deliver youfrom wordiness again. (I hope you note that here you have excluded anyone without a cock from giving any sort of shit about anything. You could rescue yourself by sticking to "I" instead of "we" throughout.
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. "something combative" is passive voice. I don't think you want that here.
We beat on, now against the current of a manmade wave pool, I think 'artificial' would be better than 'man-made.'
ceaselessly, into our past, "Ceaselessly" doesn't work for me, it's too hissy for beating. Maybe 'perpetually', 'unendingly', 'endlessly' or 'interminably.' Break out the thesaurus.
sullying our creation, Sullying is too intellectual-sounding if you're going for Beat.
tying our nooses,
swallowing our pills,
slashing, cutting, bleeding, scarring our wrists,
crying into our personal sink. I don't often cry into sinks.
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. Overwrought. Wordy. Intellectual-sounding. Screwed up syntax. (You don't really want to fight those starving children and sex workers, do you?)
We only know to proceed by rending the pillow, You've worked the pillow analogy to death, but I don't even know what it's a metaphor of.....!
nestling in it's threads and feathers, its
resting our heads, sleeplessly.

I'm sorry, but I can't think of a way to salvage this poem as is. Choose one: A) Nightmare nights drooling into pillow; describe nightmare. B) Sleepless nights smothered in Pillow of Despair (since we only drool when asleep, you'll have to forego the drool.) C) Beat rant against all the ills of the modern world. Better pay attention to the beat if you choose that one.
Carry on. Leah.