"The Metamorphosis"

Termites.
Water-logged bridges.
Black Mold.
The youth. Is starting to change.
Judge any one of us by our covers
and we are all Kafka’s “Metamorphosis.”
We leave poetry on sticky notes at bus stops,
just in hope that someone will FEEL FOR US,
that SOMEONE will know what we meant.
Our eyes face inwards,
the letters of our names drop off into algebraic equations.
Barcodes.
Zip codes.
Area codes.
We are known by these numbers;
losing our identities.


The youth. Is starting to change. 
Objectified by middle-aged men with goatees,
“I WISH I COULD PUT MY HANDS ON YOU!”
…He wasn’t the first and he won’t be the last today.

Posted up like last year’s mannequins in an alleyway,
searching for the next thing we can devour,
contracting ourselves,
retracting ourselves, 
distracting ourselves,
as everything we said
was white noise: a suicide pact
as we could
HEAR OURSELVES BREAKING
BEFORE WE COULD FEEL A THING
AND IT SOUNDED LIKE THE SYMPHONY
OF A THOUSAND CHAMPAGNE FLUTES
AND 99 CHANDELIERS
CLAPPING AT ONCE,
SO WE’D BOW AND SAY THANK YOU
AND GRIN FOR ONE LAST TIME
BEFORE OUR TEETH WERE PLANTED
LIKE CALCIUM ZITRATE SEEDS
FOR THE NEXT GENERATION
AND WE’D CRY
“AT LEAST THEIR BONES WILL BE STRONGER 
THAN OURS EVER WERE!”
  
The youth. Is starting to change.
Let’s pour ourselves on the rocks into sacreligion  and the ‘beat’ lifestyle,
put salt on our rims,
idolize alcoholics and cynics
because we can’t be the only ones.
 As we point out one another’s scars and say
“HEY, AT LEAST I’M NOT THAT BAD!”
Turn to mirrors as company;
a never-ending cycle of
updownupdownupdownupdownupdownupdown,
AND MY GOD, WILL WE EVER FEEL ALIVE AGAIN?

We coat ourselves in latex paint of “what mood do I want to have today?”
just so we can miss whichever choice we didn’t make.
Lavender kisses and yellow birds,
your childhood spent on trollies,
the times you felt safe 
are counted on one pinky-less hand.
The youth. Is starting to change.
We’ll shake ourselves out in thermally conductive handfuls
of fool’s gold
and use it to buy one last drink.

I have shaken hands with the analog clocks of our future,

and they were trembling.

'

Reviews

[dieuxsansculte]

It's hard to swallow the angst that overflows from this piece and not look back to a time when I was much younger and believed (imagined) of my generation that we "see things and feel things a little DEEPER than most." Only to discover the truth was a little different.

Maybe your generation WILL be the one to change things. I've been hoping that for many years now, ever since I discovered the clay feet of my own.

I don't know if it makes a difference, but I am someone will (at least try to) "feel for you," someone who will (at least try to) know what you meant