Girl, you write like Kerouac
Yet, you lack that style
That flow, that sounds
Like the written form
Of bebop

You lack an age of change,
Of beatnecks in turtlenecks
Of hipsters, coming up from
The shallow depths of hell
To preach the underground

Tell me, where is your voice?
Who is your audience?
Or do you intend to read
Aloud, to a mirror’s reflection?
To an imaginary crowd?
With cooing sounds of affection?

Hot ****, Vanity strikes
Even the unknown,
All you need is a pen in hand
Some ink on paper, ******
Or half-decent, or merely alright
And you’re a god

Stop.

Think.

That era is dead.