Dead Generation

The bleeding has ceased
And my organs have scabbed over
With cigarettes and shredded throats into a microphone
And drowning out everything with little white flower buds within the ears
But twist the wrong way
Turn to see the wrong vortex at the wrong moment in the paradox of ill people
And scabs are ripped again
And so the grey bloody rain mess seeps out once again into the stomach
Eating another ulcer in a quite ironic fashion
If not dark
This unintentional self mutilation becomes
Quite reminesscent and reflective
Of the ills of the ill of the poster child
For a dead society
Of drones
With razor blades
And the romance of chemicals
In a menthol upper middle class white suburban
Self-wallow pity party
Of the past
That goes on for years too long
Because negative attention is better than none at all
Mutily as the main course
Whoring themselves out to pigs for dessert
And add in a broken cigarette full of father problems
And mix it with some pills and booze and herbs to run away and away
When the only way away is to
Wake up
Smell the fucking roses
And grow up
Because the world doesn't stop for a few self-loathing deviants
And the train comes by again
Behold the dead generation
Hear the lacerated symphony
And hang the brainwashed head
Til death


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