In the mundane ways we move
through this prolonged charade on stage
and through vintage camera lens noise
we only think we know the Real McCoy.
Our generation is the last generation
every time and with each new one
we watch as youth bends and trembles
with tears, blood, ambition and fuck-all
These souls wretch with the music
and grind on each other with half-lit cigarettes
pressed between ruby red lips
like some neon re-envisioning of the Flapper.
In the mundane way we breath in each breached word
that we call one another out on honest notions.
A generation – mine, now gone to the wayside
and as I age with the times, I feel that
the dusty corpses of “once-was” only now fills
the heads of the tight-skinned grins of
“you don’t know what it’s like.”
in the end, we all were “once was.”