age-old hipsters with sagging egg-encrusted hair
blackened eyes, tired, staring through years like the passage of centuries
Johnny Rotten is no more.

everything is crumbling, doomed to who-gives-a-fuck

those teenage days of cocaine daze
and drunken molotovs in the school parking lot
and, shit, the days are getting shorter
and it never amounted to much more than a, "Hey!
I'm fucken pissed and i dont know what to do about it!"

just grow a little older, maybe a little wiser
(maybe not)
and the passions are as stagnant as corporate ladders
idealism sold away for a little piece of mine
and can i truly just be sitting here?
just sitting, wasting away?

Hakim Bey's monographs sit on the shelf buried away
collecting dust
and mantras like chaos and black flags seem to blur
into a foggy haze best remembered only when the old skool
farts meet at the bar and talk wistful of revolution in the
same breath as child care while somewhere someone is slamdancing alone
and somewhere else someone else is tearing our fucking war down into retro cult fashion....

and we sit at the bar drowning in guiness
telling ourselves we all just grew up
or kid around, pretend we're subversive pink
fill the pits in another ale and kid ourselves

is this what it is to grow up?
or is this what it is to die?



appears in Megaera (www.megaera.org)