XIX

Gosh, how tired I feel about
this neverending story.
That so-called angst
which never served any purpose.
That useless self-indulgence,
those calling-to-attention moves
manifested by greedy,
delusive suicide letters.

Utterly tired of
these dumb Cobain wannabes,
and of those who pretend that
Henry Miller and Bukowski
are guides and fathers,
highly speaking messiahs
instead of artists.

Bored of this Fight Club,
Trainspotting fandom,
as if no other movies
have something to say.

And this goofy neo-punk,
emo-gothic movement
desperately trying to rent a personality,
which is easier than dealing
with a reigning void.

This pseudo-frustrated generation
unable to build a mood
if it’s not by copying it,
incapable of moving
without leaving a gummy trace
of cheap rental misery.

I don’t ask you to meet the hunger
nor the war, the poverty
- not even a Great Depression-

But I do think
you still have to show us
what pain
means.

1 comentario:

mv dijo...

Después de XIX una se siente pequeñita, diminuta, insignificante y con las palmas de las manos doloridas de aplaudir por esta cadena de palabras y de significado.
Si la poesía se me escapa de la pluma, no voy a mencionar lo que supondría intentar emularla en otro idioma.

Menudo café nos has servido.