The Hangover; such is the upshot of the it all; such is the quintessential metaphor for our generation: struggling to hold on to long gone great ideals that seep away like water through cupped hands. The reality then, is that we have none, only black and white and fractured tape reel memories playing distorted images and voices of men and women we can no longer relate to. Progress has failed us. Through the exploitation and blood of innocents they took the world by its throat and threw it at our feet, but there was nothing left in it.
Our mothers and fathers, grandfathers and grandmothers penetrated as deep as they could; wrenching at the hooker's guts till she vomited everything; with their teeth they tore off her flesh and left our bleeding and immobile, once beautiful Mother an ancient silicone whore; scarred and dead behind her eyes - nothing left to give to anyone save a new generation of pimps and curb crawlers, and even for them there's barely a little meat left on the bone.
This is our inheritance. The oil's drying up and the ocean's closing in.
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| Bill B. |
