tomorrow's the end

The news has been telling us something is wrong.

Putting our lips on each other is so common a thing,

and budding eardrums are split by bad music

for hours in the damp basement, abandoning all

admiration for heroes, all we want are blankets;

overwrought with cheap kisses and salty tongues,

rolling in the shameless earth, pickled warm bodies;

and since hugging is hello, hello thus becomes goodbye:

No one is ever around, only their ego's shadow,

while all the judgments we strap to our back

weigh just as much as before, wearing us down, and

holding in it everything we need to survive

in this old and rigid world.

It's not our fault; we're required to carry backpacks
to make our weary parents happy,
who sit distraught in spare coat closets:

and cries for tomorrow's youth,
who cries for tomorrow's youth,
who cries for tomorrow's youth.