Masters of the No-Man-Domain
The great grief and the implacable anathema...
As we pounce and try, we get foiled and fail/ as we rise
above, we hit our heads against the ceiling, and skulk away
in self-irony and shame/ We are not a generation to speak
of, for we generate nothing to seek for - instead we revolve
around floundering uncertainty, under the pretext of "trying
to find myself"/ We shoot up cocaine and it's various
derivatives, guzzling down drams and drams of wine... we're
the wine-drunk winos of the streets and offices... we
believe and yet know not the definition of it... but if
these hypothetical beliefs turn out true, we would be seized
in disbelief. We are scions of the Zionists and tyrants of
the Fellahin... if we are what we pertain to we are not what
we pretend to be. Geysers shoot up hot water in the air, and
we marvel... a guy shoots up opium in the vein, and he
grovels. And on the Brit's grave who fell for the Holy City
and the Holy Cause was written:  "UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN"

Author innominate