by David Droster
Who are we?
Who follow the lost generation.
Who have not the refuge of lost.
Who have not the poison, smog,
nicotine, warm comfort of crisis.
Hard, cold, and ever-ours.
Who have not the purpose of nihilist
revelation.
Who give holy reverence to the cross of
Cobain,
but do not see him through the ghost
of Salinger.
Who, in madness, masturbate to Rage
while the censored
verses of This Land lay forgotten.
Who buy the severed popchart heads of
former generations. And the reduction of memories. And the husks of
causes and ideals. Movements, statements, so worn and withered,
diluted, dismantled, and dispersed by mindless inbreeding that the
once potent spat hope and freedom from the youthful kilns and
furnaces and work tables of accidental craftsmen has been cast back
in. To be propaganda. To be mathematically accurate to the census of
test audiences derived of target demographic data. To stay true to
the balck of the projected prophet calculations. The beautiful black.
Who are we who have not taken up our
mantle.
Who spit in the face of the precipice.
Who buy into the product of the
individualism
with mommy and daddy and grandson’s
money.
Who are the imitators.
And the standers-by.
The oblivious observers.
Who do not mind this all.
