The modernity of youth,
the strange unyielding
to tidal time,
a rhythmic pulse
of decay in our
breaking bones.
The cracking
of our ribs,
hearts bursting
as we are pulled
forward-back,
a tumble-down cyclic
washing machine
we are tossed 'round.
It is proverbial,
scribed on bathroom tiles
in prolific sharpies,
we are the messenger gods
of some generation
in-between all else.
The condition sub-humanoid
street crawlers
urban nightmares
in our scrawling dreams
on Saturday afternoons,
shades pulled
in a sleazy gesture.
We whisper in
metal-clanging halls,
stairwells echoing
the past of ourselves,
retro-clad.
Some class of
ourselves.
A caste out of the system,
sublime in our recline
over the jungles
of thought.
What is there to do
but everything
we are told
in the wake of our
dreams and screaming
rock bands,
the thumping bass oozing
from underneath garage doors.
Across the skies we
blaze fast and bold
trained in the ways
to do as we're told.
We are the shouting
masses in disrepair
all along the streets
with our radios blaring
we are the chosen ones,
messiahs.
Who burn fast,
die young.
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