March 18, 2010

A Howling Work in Progress

I saw the worst minds of my generation
try to quote Ginsberg like they knew what the fuck he was going on about,
like they too, could feel the beat from lecture hall seats
before hesitating,
to eat packed lunches their Mother’s had made,
ungratefully scorning her over-zealous application of butter,
before returning to pretend that they related
to poems about cocaine and gutters.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
idolise Oscar Wilde and tattoo his oh so quote-able brain
across their backs,
and proceed to talk about crack,
riding in their Daddy’s cars, who bought them the insurance,
hoping no one caught them, washing it for tenner in the alley
so they could go and watch French films they didn’t understand at the cinema.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
discussing capitalism in Starbucks,
drinking mocha-crapa-cinos,
calling knock-off bottles of pinot grigio “Vino”
throwing out their Nike trainers
because they saw some programme
where a kid called Teeno worked for 10pence an hour in a sweat shop.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
diagnose themselves as depressed,
as they undressed for anyone who bought them a drink,
coughing up lungs in nightclub sinks,
writing diaries that they thought rivalled Anne Frank’s misery,
bitterly putting “KEEP OUT” signs on bedroom doors
but who never ignored their parents calling “dinner” from the stairs.

I saw the worst minds of my generation
looking shady whilst buying records in HMV
even though they didn’t own a gramophone,
and moaning how unbelievably alone they are in their partiality for
post-Marxist-afro-cuban-experimental-nintendocore
because the lyrics really reveal the existentialism of their inner Hades.

And I saw the worst minds of my generation
trying to write poetry,
trying to rhyme words for the sake of it,
trying to make it look like they could take a word and match it with another,
and if they were really good,
it would only rhyme a little,
reading Philip Larkin just because “they fuck you up, your mum and dad”
and then standing in front of you guys,
with a complex and a with a poetic creation,
as if they really were any better
than the worst minds of their generation.


- 3 comments by 0 or more people Not publicly viewable

  1. Sue

    I didn’t see most of those things but my Mum did do that with butter. I never had a KEEP OUT sign and I don’t remember anyone else having one on their bedroom door. I had my own bedroom and my two sisters shared a room. Sometimes I would feel envious about this but I’m sure if I’d had to share They’d have got on my wick. Sometimes my nearest sister and I used to smuggle items of clothing out of each others rooms and wear to go out. The few times my sister found out about this she used to say “Mum, Sue’s worn my dress and stretched it!” when in reality we were both the same size, if anything, I was slightly smaller and I couldn’t possibly have stretched it.

    19 Mar 2010, 00:42

  2. Sue

    I’m reading a book by OLiver James called “They F*** You Up”. At the front is a dedication which reads:-

    To my mum and dad,
    the principal cause of this book.

    21 Mar 2010, 09:01

  3. Sue

    By the way “Comment awaiting approval” is the height of boredom. I’m sure Oliver James would have a field day with this. Part of the pleasure of posting comments is to see them immediately, I’m sure Oliver James would feel the same. I’d like to remind you of a poem:-

    When people are born they are supple
    And when they die they are stiff
    When trees are born they are tender
    And when they die they are brittle.
    Stiffness is then a cohort of death,
    Flexibility a cohort of life.

    21 Mar 2010, 09:11


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