I was conceived on acid and whippets, the drugs a kaleidoscope of umbilical dreams.
I was conceived on bad luck and lust, from darkness and sexually exploitive childhood trauma.
I was conceived on teenage dreams and difficult childhoods, to black sheep children of 17.

I was raised on addiction and narcissism, a love bomb here and authoritarian abuse there.
I was raised on the chess long game, to lose a piece here means to win at the end.
I was raised on 2000s tv, Lorelei Gilmore my wish for a mother, Rory my idol.

I taught myself strength in building up a fantasy on the outside while my castle crumbled within.
I picked myself up by the tendrils of a lost childhood, by the whispers of good memories, by the hiding places I found in pages upon pages of someone else’s imagination.

And I let it all go at 28. To find peace. To start over. To build myself a new castle with no more haunted corners or echoes of pill bottles or smells of ***** and orange juice permeating the breaths of those who walk these sacred halls.
Rib cage cut open, heart destroyed and renewed, ancient umbilical nooses cut with teeth.

I will no longer fall victim to my mother’s circumstances or my father’s mistakes, I will never have the soul I’ve created look at me and ask himself if he is loved or safe.

I am cycle breaker,
I am generational karma’s worst ******* fear,
I am no longer frightened maiden,
I am fearsome mother.
I am new.

The last generation
asked for success.
Our generation
asked to be left alone.
This generation
asks only to mitigate
the pain.

–Ron Gavalik

Who is the captain, of our ship,
The engineer of this train,
The person in the director’s chair,
The ones that make the most gains?
Our vessel,  a round mass of dirt,
Rocks, the center full of fire,
Water and sand, knowing,
Our lives are limited reservations,
We never totally own our land.
The people should be happy,
It seems like old history,
Many welcomed strangers, to their town,
Introduce themselves, invite them for vittles,
A shot of moonshine, truly kind, not a plan,
To rob, or hurt them, they enjoyed company around.
Every generation, learns, from what they hear and see,
Those at the wheel, need to change direction, a different way,
Robots are we trying to eliminate ourselves, the future will it be.
By The Original Tom Maxwell © 1/30/2022 AD

post war baby boomer
born of Blitz lottery survivors
sixties influenced music head
mixed bad taste seventies
girly long hair and dress sense
brought new life into space age
travellers seeking new worlds
while trying to rescue the one
we messed up in the first place

Watch the moon go across the sky
as you lie on your back and wonder why
or how on this planet we came to be
evolved from fish or decedents of Eve

Though none of it matters for we cannot go back
time moves forward as a matter of fact
just as the past, the future is unknown
except to the mystic and their crystal ball showing

The paths of men, women and beast
the future of war and lacking of peace
They see such doom and unfortunate pain
They see the young who end up insane

And other youth ruined as they grow old
tainted and rotted -- lost in the world
lost in themselves from the moment of birth
some unlit candles lacking self worth

lacking the chance their ancestors got
who ***** all the land, bickered and fought
A blind group of creatures who just couldn't see
the sacrifices WE made so they could be free

As we got older, it became clear
that we wouldn’t have the luxuries

of drink without worry,
of sleep without restlessness,

of raising children
without fear for their survival.

It became clear
that we would never garner

the respect of our elders
no matter how dearly we pined for it,

and that the world itself
would smolder

while those responsible
rested comfortably in their graves,

and those of us to whom
our forebears’ sins were bequeathed

would be left to choke on the smoke
and ashes

of a promise to posterity
allowed to burn instead.

Us as cracked pots,
with a possibility to be fixed
as fine and flawed

The geology of our clay:
dirt will behave as dirt,
rare earth as rare earth

With time it transmutes
to something new,
shot with old veins when fired

The new *** fragile,
prone to drops and knocks,
desperate to hold known water

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

Pause

For thought or effect,
the end’s the same

Played your hands in the game like always

But

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

And where did the vitriol get you,
old man?

To a better place?
Where fat white women sing your praise?

While at home your carbon copies
bust their lips
when the home team loses?

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

You waiting for something?
Applause for working a nine to five
and allowing a fraction
of your take home to be spent on living,
raising?

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours

I’ll stand over you now
As you stood over me
Instead of raining blows
I’ll let the misery of your truth
Catch in your chest
and fight for the cause

The rattle in your lung
says the choice is no longer yours