The Poetry Kit

Competitions

Courses

Events

Funding

How-to Books

Magazines

Organisations

Poets

Publishers

Who's Who

Workshops

Home

Search

 

Mick Moss - U.K.

Still Howling - the next Generation - dedicated to Alan Ginsberg

I saw the not particularly bright minds of my generation driven to obscurity
Red brick Mickey Mouse degrees promised us interesting world changing careers
but all we got were mortgages, interest rising
Thrust expectantly from the womb of a post-war, black and white, still
rationed, once great nation
that shared it's greatness with you if you were born from the right stock
          but we were not
From one room to baby boom, suburbia, Bevin's babies with national
reassurance
          blue collars stained white by the new blue whiteness of
copy-writer's lies
and the white heat of technology, gadgets in the ideal home for the nuclear
family
Our optimism shattered by Cuban missiles, and a man on the grassy knoll
         While bombs rained down from LBJ and PLJ was advertised on rented
televisions
buy now, pay later, must have, have not pot bellied black babies screaming
napalmed
boil in the bag convenience , Buddhist monk barbecued, brains blown out for
the camera
          bland TV dinner time horrors daily
Ho ho ho Ho Chi Mihn, and Che washed up in a Bolivian bath house
Terrence Conran made shopping fun as our habitat degraded
         Still, we had the Beatles, Yeah yeah yeah
Born with a plastic spoons in our mouths, substitute for the modern world
moulded multi-coloured in factories, scream in your grave Henry Ford
any colour as long as it's black can sit in the back
          Too much it's a Magic Bus
They taught us Thomas Hardy and Jane Austin but not Ken Kesey
too merry a prankster for their sensibilities incensed by DH Lawrence
And yes, our servants could have read it if we had them
          but we didn't
We laughed at such absurdities, but raged when they locked up Mick and Keef
Who would break a butterfly on a wheel?
The News of the World with no news but vicars and tarts, Prurient
         where OZ never was
But still they slammed it, the small minded, blinded Mary Shitehouses
of this scandalized post Profumo island
Where the pavements of Grosvenor Square were spattered with teenage blood
          and Queer was a dirty word
Especially in Grantham, where the milk snatcher rubbed her dry cunt
dreaming of Maynard Keynes and the power a bigoted shop keeper would one day
weald
           in middle England
Where a nouveau-riche phoney middle class sold votes for the right to buy
           their council hovels
Where joy riders ripped up the night and raved ecstatically
until the public order act repossessed the right to dance
          and the building society foreclosed
Until WE had had enough of things never getting better, and got them out
Only to find  wed swapped the same old thing for brand new drag
 and the 'special relationship' dragged us into another pointless
war
While headmasters fake results for pupils playing Nintendo in class
where English is reduced to CU L8R tapped out between votes for this weeks
pop stars
          And I'm still howling at wounds festering under a karma suture.
 



 


BackNext