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Poetry

The Real World: Original Soundtrack of My Life

Posted by kristenwillms@knights.ucf.edu on April 29, 2016 at 2:50 AM

I was born the year

The Fab Four disbanded

and the Voodoo Child died.

It was a cursed year,

to those who survived it,

but many more decades

would surpass it.

 

The formative days of my youth,

existed in the shadowed aftermath

of Love and Peace, reverberations

of combat torn Boomers.

“Stairway to Heaven” filled our kitchen

and “Smoke on the Water” riffed

its way into melodic infamy.

The harmonious turmoil matched

my ever shifting residential

situations, while humanity

sought to recover its path.


Puberty was punctuated

by the Birmingham five, asking

the question on everyone’s mind

“Please, please tell me now,

Is there something I should know?”

Little did we discern, in the synthesizer

packed prosperity party, in our neon haze

as “New Romantics looking for the

TV sound”, we should have pushed

harder for those answers. They

could have prevented the present

problems, by revealing the core.

 

Speed metal and grunge ushered

in the arrival of parenthood,

and the grey flannel days.

Sleepless nights, soiled diaper,

endless bottles and clothes

to wash. Life as the decade’s

mirror. Music acting as commentary

on the letdown of aspirations,

for me and my fellow Gen X’ers.

Punctuated by a Seattle suicide,

the product of heroin and shotgun rage.


 And as we see some outward appearance

of attainment over the vista,

tragedy befalls a rocky mountain town.

Self-proclaimed messiahs in trench coats

appearing amidst a storm of gunfire.

Surrendered to their selfish deities, blood

must spill for justice to be served.

Omega, the Antichrist Superstar, martyred,

crucified on his Holy Wood to compensate

for their sins. I looked upon my progeny

and felt the first of the fear

for their future that flourished

in years to follow.

 

Now I exist in an empty household

while the loudest vulgar voices

in the room roar of empty values,

empty journalist principles,

empty political promises, all sold

to the highest bidder in the clearance

sale on the soul of America. I forsake

the hi-fi, like those who come over

its airwaves had forsaken musical

art for the money grab. Video

did not kill the radio star; thy slayer’s

name is capitalism. Empty tunes

drowning out the substance still

struggling to rediscover its volume.

 

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