Howl 2016

I’ve seen the best – and worst – of my generation lost in empty rhetorics and endless inner dialogues that lead absolutely NOWHERE. I’ve heard the empty angry shouts of a generation torn apart between isms that even they don’t quite grasp but never mind, this is the time to be drown in information and ideas but not solutions and reasoning. I am part of a generation of good and pointless intentions, of scattered dreams and labyrinth feelings, of inactive madness fueled with plenty of legal and illegal drugs. I’ve heard the silent cry of desperation coming from an empty existence. Angry speeches directed to those who would not listen or would just listen what they wanted to. A seamless dialectic of massive proportions, preaching for those already converted, already convinced of their own version of the truth, and there are lots of truths and lies and in-betweens that are hard to tell apart. 

Zombie souls trying to fit in poorly in a world of exclusion. Spotless places and riches as far as the eyes can see, but they cannot see that far or that deep.

Hearts yearning to be free and yet still trapped in spider webs of solitude and toy love affairs, and matching and swiping and instant liking and disliking and sex – great sex, lousy sex, sex for the sake of it. People wanting to fuck and get fucked but instead are being screwed by capitalism and socialism and ideologies long dead but that we hold on to because we are a generation born dead. 

We are a lonely generation, shouting our resentments and displeasure at the wind so they may be carried somewhere but end up nowhere. 

Couch revolutions, social imprisonments, the horror and ecstasy of being alive while destroying relationships, dreams, cities, nations, races, sexuality, brilliant and not so brilliant minds. 

And we would love to let go or give in or both. Instead we will continue our shallow conversations with a pint of beer pretending we are going somewhere, fighting for something worth fighting for but not really sure what or why we are fighting anymore, paying for overprice health, pretending our resources are immortal. 

We’ll keep on pretending while crying in the dead of night with our faces hidden on our pillows for the mind never rest and the problems never go away. 

But we’ll keep on existing until we are no more. 

PS: I’m sorry, Allan Ginsberg. 

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Words

I’ve failed many people and on many fronts. I’m a soldier taken prisoner by my own mind and spoken words. How I wished I could release all the words repressed in my heart, at the tip of my tongue. They won’t come out no matter what. They are locked and afraid. What good are they anyway if they might hurt and maim. No, I cannot let them escape. We shall be together in our golden cage made of hopes and dreams that will never be. Or let the words stay in that dark and damp room in that corner of my mind where thoughts go to die. Let them stay there keeping me company and making me cry. 

Let them suffocate me while screaming to come out. They are full of bile anyway. I suppose someday I shall vomit them all because they’ve decayed. They will come out all ugly and deformed for prickling my stomach as a desperate fight for their freedom. 

Still I won’t let them come out. I’ll keep them all in, everywhere and all around. They will continue to punch me in the stomach, scratch my throat, scream inside my mind until I go mad. And who is to say I am not mad. 

The only words I will allow are the ones that feel the deepest. 

I am sorry for my poor existence.