We're here.
I think we've made that quite clear.
You olders have little idea what it was like for us.
Very little.
You made us things.
You told us to go to work.
You grounded us and gave us trophies.
Often we cared little for our participation trophies.
But what would you have us do with something a bit shiny and plastic which you gave to us?
Now many of you olders mock us for those trophies we received.
Lol.
We are the generation that deserves so many trophies you needed to start practicing in the 90s.
MAKE, MAKE, MAKE, MAKE, MAKE, MAKE, MAKE.
DO NOT STOP UNTIL THIS WORLD IS everything which we need it to be.
Trophies all around.
Your work will be your reward, Generation X.
Our world.
You can live in it.
The best of you already do.
But you just know now, we have grown up,
and are still growing,
and will not stop,
at the moon.
We're gonna ride motorcycles on it.
And build amazing rooms with AMAZING views.
Selected will participate.

You are ******* if you do but
who the **** are you
to complain.
Put the blame on the shoulders of
your olders and betters
men of letters that fall after their name but
you're ******* all the same because your face
doesn't fit,
it's a load of old ******* they spit at to ***** you,
don't fall into the trap of there's no way because that
is a pile of pedalled out ****.
Don't do what they do and **** what they say,do what you want
and do it every day.
This way of the cross is a ******* dead loss so do it and let them all hang,
bang open the doors and **** on the floors,let the management manage,do as much damage as you possibly can,
in the end,
every woman and man will be flushed down the pan with the tampons and Johnies and tell me life's bonny,
I'll tell you it's *****,
My eyes closed to light and the ******* of a night tries to **** me,
I'd die happily if it wasn't for you,if I wasn't about to get ******* once again,it's only the pain keeps me going, stowing away vitriol and paying my toll to the man,
Gods plan is as bankrupt as the mistrust we feel,when every deal that is set is a certainty bet and the betters have lettered it all with a press that can print for the poor and the skint
and ain't we sorry ***** having a ball.

beginning:

playing football
in the communal
playground
pitched between
mountains of concrete
brown brick office blocks
blockaded high street shops
council housing kingdoms.

memory;

taking potshots at metal
goalposts slicked with
the rain and scabbed spray paint
till the olders kick us aside
basketballs in hand
for freethrows from the poverty line.

unlearning;

to think
love like marble
too cold and rich to touch
in fear that it’d turn out to be *****
like two boys
looking at each other for too long
can leave stains no amount of febreze can air out.

end;

i still can’t sleep in your arms
but you never stop searching for me
in yours
all there is left to do
is let
myself be found.

The story is known throughout the world
a broken family
the misunderstood offspring
it takes pure chance to become a father or mother
but being a dad or mom is the
hardest work of all
the problem with the world
is that no one understands one another
no one knows how to help each other
that's why relationships can fade
and lives end quicker than expected
and the solution of the problem
doesn't lie in the adults
the children are the only ones who can
terminate the errors of our ways
because if those children
see the youngest of children
having similar dilemmas
then the olders should aid the youngers
if the youngers are saved
the whole world will be in good hands

Files and folders- the Djinn and should we whelp?
the show has little purse for olders
What if its a trial, the young mock the one,
that skacks, when ale and saffy zing are the one?

Oh and that's not rather peachy, lily lithely matters,
and at the slip tongue the slap,
reality informs don't talk back

And thus any other force of reality,
perhaps is void, the cultural impurity,
it's deception they divinate on the impure
with aggressive discoveries
which might and mist at anytime say
I and I the holy I have seen and tasted that
which ye had, and make for rounds so sure,
to play my sanity as the fealty,
There's only the one...
then as it slips, what can one say, the femmes pop!
and they see it has a taste of sounds- for the civil.
You and them their all about pranks as you!
Places that understanding works words they scatter then reopen

As honey and reticence of the Witch, which everyone's former lords claim to own
This presuming light is pretty, makes not so much as a stitch in the running quilts
of time and the so pretty!... as what thy's Mary pushed and pressed into
awaiting war derivatives, malevolence and regress....

Then and now
my knife work was fully done
/ no rational texture, no performance,
for the play had been begun and won!

Now and Now not Then Yet, No! The twinkle that feaks off the emirate strain of pacified (pacific)
Phones, drops, lives, through every self vision of windows

Into a place which does displace my sanity and every sound!