Vanilla

What ever happened to all the great haters; the masters of the misanthropic masterpiece, the devil-directors of debauched Dirty Realism?

Where are the Bukowskis and Burroughs and Fantes?

Where is the appetite for angst, desire for destruction, discord and disquietude, the punk’s perturbation, the rebel’s rage, the grit and grime of grotesquely great-works, outlaw’s outlandishness, the unartist’s manifesto.

When did we lose the great anti-intellectual intellectuals of our time and devolve into a society of self-indulgent, amorphous, moping masses. A homogenized system of declaration for platitudes, cliches and “good-vibes.”

At what time did we decide to trade in the boots of the working-class-hero in exchange for the loafer’s loafers?

In what fucking world has, “fuck,” become passe and Brooklyn, a haven for the affluent, overly-financed organic gardeneers?

Where is the appreciation for those who tear down hotel walls; the toilet-bombers, guitar-smashers, the up-fuckers of the shit and tearers-down of the world?

Maybe we’re still around. Maybe we’ve fallen within outselves. Maybe the world doesn’t want us, until such a point as our East Coast Existentialism comes into vogue once more.

The paragons of prophetic paradox wander itinerant and look towards the next upcoming recession, when an intellectually idle, hungry populous can once more consume our work with trendful voracity.

New horizons, beyond CBGB. Drifting on to new shores, which might create us, reborn anew, like the phoenix.

Shores which will render us once more, the flavor of the week.