Our boomer parents
got off reigning from fantasia
and shot us off stripped
of eyes to see the reddening skies
and offered us dreams
and companies to please
before the wonder of their
undressed nest when
we never sat long
enough on their knees
to appreciate the
fantasy in humanity’s disguise.
Now they cry bloody
murder over scapegoats
just to sugarcoat Baal’s
ruby eyes and forked tongue
they’ve grown in the
heat of bedrooms—
the demon of their
parent's gloom and scourge
in "discipline
drugs" so when the beast consumes
their innocent they
weren't surprised at how it stung.
And so everything
they said would hurt us didn’t
and everything they
didn’t tell us did.
They told us to watch
out for strangers in the grass
when our cheeks were
dripping with pizza grease,
and called us victims
when our dreams didn’t come to pass,
but that’s how it
goes when you grow up a 90's kid.
So turned on but
unsung like the first spring blooms
after
the age when the X'er's got engaged,
we
Mils lived in a womb of innocence and stink bombs,
just
bedside gluttons with pre-fab dreams—
for
the age of common sense waged its war
to
protect us, but it was staged.
None
at night are spared
a
PC fairy tale.
“Everyone’s
Special”
--Porter Daryl's Poems
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