To a Young Contemporary

You stand here poised while
Wondering what's real--
Is it your paycheck
Or your sex appeal--
A little bit of this,
Or maybe more?--

I see you standing here
Like before--
A fragile soul with
A protective carapace--
As pints of craft beer
Are serenely passed
Among your comrades,
Devouring the scene--

As nonchalantly
They keep feeding the machine
With empty lyrics
And chords without soul--
Here's another
Smoking a bowl
Of something awesome
That smells like kerosene.

Are you Abdullah, Boris,
Wang or Chuck?--
And will your comrades
Really give a fuck
In twenty years or so
When you are old?

Yes, you've got your
Poems and your soul--
Your abstract doodlings
And your spiffy looks
That kill the chicks
That never read a book,
Or voted or gave
A shit at all?

But it is time
To hit another bowl,
And pay no mind
To ramblings
Of some fool.

Oh young contemporary,
You look so cool
Among this crowd
Of drunk and clueless sheep--
While I'm here--
Like some caustic creep,
A buzzkill and a bearer
Of bad news.

Oh young contemporary,
I bid you my adieu,
Perhaps one day we'll
Meet again--
Some future day
When we are both
Suicidal, old and grey.

                 

--Alexander Shaumyan
   March 21, 2019