We are the diseased generation

blown apart

by those who sought to destroy

the revolution, who told us our ideals

were wrong, who told us we could not,

under any circumstances, be allowed

to live a life unoccupied by the thought

of the bullet and the bomb,

of the starving masses knocking

at the door, of propaganda bitten chewed,

enshrined and made law, offered on a rusty

plate, bacteria hiding, syringed

into each delicate flower adorning

the rim and scraped clean, licked spotless

by the lesser weasel and its own hygiene issues,

wiping away the juices running from the crevices

of its fat, bloated and tiresome mouth…

We are the poor unfortunate bastards who were promised

everything under the sun

and whilst we didn’t want it, whilst we didn’t care for it,

the lie was sold over and over again

and soon we wondered why their backs turned

upon us and the pain in our backs

started to feel more than bruised,

more than an apology for supposed weak thoughts,

they sold us stones to weigh us down and the polluted

paint and industrial foul stench we washed it in

and drank because we were told it was beneficial,

told it was good, told that we could drink it

or go without, that the diseased cow was good,

that it mattered not to anyone

why it struggled to die quietly,

we are the unforgivable bastards

to whom the generation born tomorrow

will hate us forever;

for we failed to change a damn thing.

Ian D. Hall 2016