“Get your ass up on the stage now, gotta rage until you die.”
— from the lyric “Lovely Generation” by Cole DeGenova
Anarchy sounds like anger rhymed
with disappointment. Young poets don’t write gentle
blue wildflowers, glorious orange sunset.
They don’t have that quiet vocabulary.
This lovely generation wears their words
inked into their skin — black and blue
and red rage; Buddhist symbols
and Gandhi quotes; and leafy ferns
that spread from tailbone, up spine
and over shoulders. They pierce
tender nipples, soft glans – holes
in sensitivity, pain as pleasure,
the irony of this era.
Buried trauma free-versed
on their arms and perfect alabaster legs.
The creed of greed is a lost prayer. Jobless they
have no dreams to defer. Lied-to they
trust their last texts of imagination. Pained they
split the differences of parents to sing a new song,
to live in rain forests. We’ve lost
the flowers in our hair
somewhere along the road of years, we’ve lost
Anarchy sounds like the click-click of
Refresh! Refresh! Refresh!