Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Howl, 2019. (With apologies to Allen Ginsburg.)

I saw the best minds of my holding company destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through conference rooms at dawn looking for an angry deck,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry job-coded machinery of commerce,
who meeting after meeting, and twelve rounds of creative to hollow-out the wit and humor and life,
sat up in the supernatural darkness of open-plan offices floating across the tops of cities contemplating noise-cancellation,

who bared their brains to Heaven and under the Sorrell, saw Wrennish angels staggering on agency roofs illuminated,
who passed through ad schools with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Cannes and Archive’d tragedy among the scholars of ads,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & human resource odes on the windows of what had been souls,
who cowered in unshaven conference rooms in ripped jeans, burning their money on useless tattoos and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their Williamsburg flats, the non-running L-train, returning through Greenpoint with a belt of quinoa for New York,
who ate kale in paint hotels or drank pinot in the Ace bar, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and two percent raises every thirty-six months.

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