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After Ginsberg MAG
I've seen the best minds of my generation try hard tocrucify themselves,
Starving for the attention and recognition of their gods,
Overdosing for a lack of anything better to do.
Anti-heroes rejectingconvention with an obsessive snobbiness,
The angry prejudice of anyrevolution
(It's us against them, you know).
So now how shall youdefine them:
They who run through the streets excreting movie lines, songlyrics
And statements of good fortune in Yiddish out into the cold
(Theymake sense to us, at least).
Who stay up all night writing the poetry forwhich they think of themselves so highly,
Only to hate it the nextmorning.
(Wouldn't we be boring any other way?)
Who leap off balconies,and when they land consider joining Weight-Watchers.
Who fly through thehalls, laughing at themselves
And everyone around them
(The center of ourown worlds).
Who die each time they realize they aren't flawless
Evenin their own realm of adolescence
(But cry the moment we measure up,disappointed).
Who look forward earnestly to the days when things justaren't like they used to be.
Who reject their names and their privileges,abuse their liberties,
Living in their own self-imagined poverty withpeace.
(We're vindicating our futures, you know.)
Who paint schoollight bulbs.
Who refuse to call spoons spoons, or to spell god D-O-G
(Thusproving Him and the spelling of His name to be irrelevant).
Who jump overfences because they feel they are too good for the doors.
Who waitpatiently for the deleterious to happen, then find the aftershocks to beclichéd.
Who pose as demimondes so as not to appear conceited.
(Wecould just as well be anachronisms; do we really deserve all thisdisillusionment?)
Who hold themselves hostage on numerous counts ofvirulence;
Who watch the world instead of living in it
(Because we don'twant any of the blame afterwards).
(Who wish we had draft cards toburn.)
Who are holy, considering the times, but only by a process ofelimination.
Who use asceticism as a diet plan, and who starve themselves tolook like saints.
(Who live just to become saints.)
Who read eachdesktop in search of good advice, but find instead their fortunes left
for them to erase.
Who are the debutantes of their ownsouls.
Who celebrate tragedy with hints of refinement and elegance,
(Happyto at least have the floor).
Who won't look their role models in the eyes;who prefer their illusions of them.
Who dress to blend in with thedumpsters,
Who deem themselves cheap trash cans
Who ruthlessly fight this battle of curiosity, taking noprisoners.
JOIN THE DISCUSSION
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