decade thoughts, epithaph form |
Child of the Seventies- Epitaph One Will Boomer's ever die? Child of the Seventies- Epitaph Two Baby, born six and a quarter pounds of sixties discontent. Mom, Dad, flog the last smoking jacket, disco polyester collars game and cigarette bunnies flaunt wares nude. Decade long moon shots shrink the world, one small step for man. People fear no space left, scrambled farms co-opt, cities erupt and flow like hot lava into sleeper housing. Rioteer's specialize interests on capitol hill. Calculator's whirr projections, we blow each other up minimum 13x's. Those who think ahead sell high as kites to oil Kings, read the writing on the wall, Mene mene, Tekel tekel. War machinator's end, begin, viet-raq, time to deplete arsenals. Ready, aim-fire, afterall arms get stale. The president was shot three times, but only one died. Kennedy left us without his knowledge. We watch brain matter leak out, doesn't have a chance of informing him. Reagan laughs it off. By contrast, the constant barrage of peace talk ends the modern world. Children were left behind in the mad accumulation for things. Anxiety gets a dance rating, while TV fuses focus, washers ring out of balance, phones interrupt coitus. Home is a barren land, where working stiffs once our parents venture out of overtime bliss, the living dead. Boy's unfold magazines, longing for a scratch and sniff poster of Angels, watch the world play around, wait their turn, while boomer's hog the air, jobs, rewards, gas. Ask, when's it my turn, momy? Boy's still route for nipple, mom didn't breast feed, wanted firm breasts for her old man. Gross isn't a concept, unpopular is. Check makeup while baby crawls neglected, 'Marilyn's got nothin' on me.' National Geographic pictured unpopular breastfeeders, needn't mention that starving to death unpleasantness. After all, we don't need cancer or aids, just abortions, it's the seventies. Seventies child buffoon, stand alone, stoned at the empty tomb of boomers and wave wanna-be-computer-banner print out. |