I’ve had enough of ghosts and grids
Trenches, barbed wire, and shovels.
How many years are left in my wrists
My shoulders, knees, and back?
And when I was younger
I thought there’d be no end
To cheap rent and blogspots.
Where did it all go wrong?
Why is it so hard to be free?
I know the answer — it’d be far too cliché.
I just want to know:
Where did everything interesting go?
And would I have made it to twenty today?
Where did everything I loved go?
And what gives you the right to put up all these fences?
You are the true gentrifiers.
Enjoy your empty garden.
In order to kill the weeds, you killed everything.
You killed the arts of my generation
And someday you’ll be buried too.
And when there’s nothing but pious silence
Maybe you’ll hear the voice of God:
You were too good for heaven
Maybe there’s room in hell
Where you can wear your old Burzum shirts.