Haute Couture Grotesque, or Talking About My Generation
After the mild war, the war that seemed to only last an hour,
we noticed many different types of sky. Each advertised
its own demise: one atomic, one apocalyptic, another ironic.
We learned to live with it. Here in the Year of the Bore,
the Year of the Stethoscope, we are told the weather will go
from balmy to brutal in twelve hours flat. We are told
It's a miniature winter, but it's a winter that keeps on happening.
It's one long cough on the way to April; our lungs are their own
carcinogens. Some of us subscribe to the Chicken Noodle diet
while the rest swear by Wonder Bread, the vodka-cigarette
method, the Quaker Oats technique. We are told Try to get
some sleep. In retaliation, we hit the town and make requests:
I'll have a Sidecar, a Greyhound. I'll have an Old-Fashioned.
Despite the drop in egg count we are forever photogenic;
we've found a way to bottle the juice of the pomegranate,
we know all sorts of synonyms for stimulus. Though
the opposite of a mirror is what we're looking into,
we've evolved past our need for eyes; we're hoping
the skies will implode after last call, that we can still
hear the weather, that someone will tell us what to expect.
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