I have seen the most mediocre minds of my generation, and they are banking more money than we will ever see, in all our lives.
Pretty faces are bought and sold, while all the ugly girls and boys give them sounds and voices, careers, success they don’t earn.
Art hasn’t much to say anymore, the sketchers and painters prostitute themselves into advertising. Nobody wants your starving-neo-BohoHobo-beatnik-commie lifestyle anymore, anyway, they want lipstick and soda.
Supposedly there are a finite number of literary themes in the world- anything we do are analog copies of copies, rehashed, recast, half-assed.
Somewhere, we lost it. At some point, we tossed it.
In the land of the willingly crippled, the mental midgets are kings.
Laziness and low cunning costume as Brilliance and Ingenuity, while original thought’s punished, named laziness and stupidity.
In a tiny, rented house, there’s a man who lets the state feed his daughter while he styles himself a “Music Manager.”
I am unsure who he manages, or how, or where the money that buys his cars comes from.
But I am a six pack and and an episode of the evening news away from becoming my mother.
A short experimental poem about disillusionment.