An ode to the creative youth, searching for identity; their trials and tribulations, which are mine, and yours, and perhaps everyone's - but most especially the bleeding hearts' and artists'.
When we were avant-garde,
the world was simply ours
slow moments inside fast days
leaving our impressions
making what is special.
Experiential sight lines running
like an experimental paint job
to whose colour families we all belong
But us most shocking of those aggregations;
while the masses drip down
we writhe in variations,
Our cultures teeming with the rhythm
of the repressed and the restrained
which isn't really so much a rhythm, as it is
The tempo: the offspring of goods production
defies the triangular maths,
and the Dadaist methods that God employs to
prank us, while She laughs.
Reform, reform, reform,
echo in the weary heart, and weather-worn
lonely, giddy, gloating, too -
bashful of the lazy things
that the modernists do.
And given the trouble, as it presents
itself to those who bother to have
the mind of the pacifist, forever tormented
by intrinsic-to-our-nature Wrong - and, Right -
and the possibility of evil.
Hypocrites were we, the days
we stood like Saints
cowered like animals,
the very ebb and flow of the forsaken
ran in us,
the very greatest shame of the mistaken
and humbled, too, to the just and holy cause of
trails that connect, with love and loss and memory
energy above us; below us; within us,
abstracting us; replicating us,
uniting us; recycling us,
We paid no heed to those tangible things,
their statement; being, obsolete
we paid no heed to those other tangible things
and their uses; being, significant, it seems
To me now
in the cool, yet fatally characterless breeze
of post-youth -
the place where our fires have been tamed and
our colours, washed out
Wizened, perhaps, by a different breed of beautiful
like watered-down ink or pastel
on yellowed parchment-paper.
It was an energy that took us,
amplified our souls so that
they spilled so noisily across the canvas of our zone
that the roar of it could deafen the faith of the norm
and it was, all but a gentle "Pop!" in the galactic static
that leaps and falls a millionfold
to the power of that, which is much too great to count,
bleeding all that is into all that was and all that will be,
to the power of that, which is much too great to see.
Still, in secret resides the fire
Still I dance to the roar, for now and then
we are children, again.
And I recall
how everything was compelling
how never we were absolved
of the demanding peaks and rests of time
dependent on our resolve,
epitomizing a freedom we scarcely understood
with no alternative model, to which we could compare
our own rights, repression, and restraint
so resourcelessly defining, "fair".
Yet forever innocent in the eyes of those or them
who sing the songs of our hearts, and rage,
Forever foolish in the minds of whom or what attempts
to sketch the map of our parameters, and fails.
Now consequences to the treatment differ
of what is simple
and what is hard
for we were wired, young, and tired
and as such, gold, in nighttime glow
crazy youth, those precious shards
for we were striking, stylish, dead
when we were avant-garde.