Poem: Ginsberg

There was once a mournful poet who lamented the madness plaguing his generation
Infecting his whole world
In a time when “going viral” meant something altogether different

Hey Ginsberg how about I do you one better
The best minds of my generation have been destroyed by complacency

Fattened, lethargic, arrogant

Madness would be a blessing to us
It would mean that we gave a shit

But we’ve forgotten you, Allen
I’m sorry to say it
Kerouac went to Hollywood
Frozen in the Stone of KStew’s face
Burroughs is lost to us
When we say his name, the frightful echo: “Who?”

How could we have done it?
How can we look ourselves in the eye?
We don’t know how to Howl
We’ll never serve up a Naked Lunch
Or run free On the Road

No.
Now we hide faceless behind digitized hatred
Fattening up on our own opinions
Leading armchair revolutions

Now we’re Anonymous
Because our names mean nothing
And our faces are all the same

And we fight fire with wet noodles

The best minds of my generation are stewed
in the juices of apathy

I’m with you in Rockland, old Allen
But I wish you were still here with us

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