The oxy morons of hypocritical human perception
Have painted images for this age of the ideal,
The unreal, the impossible sabotaged to be possible and venerated,
To brainwash the innocents, the poor clay pieces
Of our youth today
Who whine and whine and moan and cannot see reality
Through the lingering, stinging frost of their gloom.
So they need a new statement, a new reason, a new look,
A new style,
Because they're too doped up and too deranged
To find the originality in their generation.
Here we have it, now, at last!
The perfect time and place to gain the freedom to love,
To have love, to be loved, to keep love, to make love
And be heard!
Yet we cower in our blankets, at our desks, in our minds,
Punching out words on meaningless keys,
Growing bloated with the ugly spirit of our hypocrisy,
Moaning and groaning over the inability to act, like
"Why, oh, why won't anyone do something about this madness?!"
And we cry and we cry and we beg for a voice
But we sit and we sit and we still wonder why
Nothing's happening here, there, or anywhere,
Why the world's still drowning in its own bullshit, and
Suffocating from the over application of unnatural glamour
That could never satisfy, anyway.
So we're crazy, they say! We're crazy! Do you hear?
We're a generation of lunacy,
Of brainwashed bitches and rebellious assholes—too damn stoned to bother rebelling,
Mellowed by their unlimited narcotics so they haven't a conscience anymore,
No care for their uninsured health, or for anyone or anything else—
And sadistic pigs who sit back and watch our melodrama on television
With their eyes and cheeks and lips all twisted in a sick, gleeful grin
As they shovel themselves full of crap and laugh callous laughs at the real world,
Which is frail and ashen with her nearing downfall,
Needing sympathy, needing attention, just some care,
But continues to die from this persistent indifference.
But who with a well mind has the time to care for her anymore?
With all this fucking nonsense about Cooper Union, Julliard, Harvard—
What prick thought that shit up? I'd like to know.
I'd like to know so I can kick his ass,
Because all anyone can care about anymore is getting there,
Being good, being the best, beating the rest,
Placing fucking numbers on our persons and letting corporate suits stamp
FAILURE
On our foreheads that are worth so little because of
Fucking numbers that mean shit to reality, truth, existence, being, our essences,
But mean a whole damn lot for our futures.
It's a sad world in which a measly number can reduce an innocent child
To a state of complete devastation and depression and hopelessness.
And so it is a sad world, because that is the world—
A world of fucking numbers and endless assignments that have young minds chasing
Invisible answers, grueling their brains into a fine pulp so they can think no more,
And straining their already sore limbs so they're wiped out, but still unfinished,
Never finished, with their ceaseless sleepless weeks,
Pushing through it all with no rest or recess.
It is a sad fucking world.
A child has no time to play, no time to sleep, no time to be a child.
He's forced to grow up too fast,
Beat down at any display of youth, disregarded at any sign of maturity,
Never taken seriously, until he's old and worn out by his overworked years,
And then he's scolded for his rapid aging, and he regrets,
And we all regret, and we are doomed to these overwhelming regrets
Until we shrivel up from the inevitable parasite of degrading influences.
That day arrives too soon,
Too soon for us, so young, so hungry to live in a world encouraging us to stay young,
But grow up! Grow up or fail.
And it hurts, God, it hurts.
Fuck.
I can feel them all, see them all, feel their tears and their streaming angst,
And it's overwhelming, God damn it! It's flooding the whole of New York City,
Washing up the high prices and low spirits in its extraordinary current.
The age is plagued with the proud tragedy of emotion,
And so it becomes a wild thing to be fought,
An enemy of the world to be suppressed,
Shot down or reasoned with,
But never accepted.
No, we can never be accepted.
We're an oxy moron as a people, a collective of hypocritical, self-hating morons,
And we can never be accepted,
Not until we can accept our own rejections,
Come to terms with it all and expel our pitiful fears
That have stalled our own possibilities
For a transcendental explosion of understanding and reason,
Which could truly be tomorrow,
But for now can never be tomorrow—
We're too fucking lazy to change the calendar.