The Last Howl Poem by Adora Williams

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by the spleen

Fighting against one another in the invisible wars we've been put through
Distracted by the artificial paradises and golden pot chimaeras
All the legends are gone since the death of the jazz
No Blake-light to be at the mercy of or even an Ode on the trash
To sustain me in case another crisis blow on the collective

I saw the best hopes of my generation exploded on a failed spaceship

Rummaging life possibilities beyond the blue
For there are no more fire exits on the matters of the matter
But if the code can convey the outlines of our hollowness
They would get to know who howls louder on Earth
Not to the moon, though, no. Not to the heavenly dynamo
In the machinery of night

We lost our senses when the second wave of madness raised
Yet, it's no more the concepts and dead idols who us unite
The sun had its last tempest reach the source of all shades
Human bond since so found its foundation in rage

I saw the best landscapes of my generation commit suicide
In an attempt to escape the bad fortune suffered by the culture

I prayed to the wind, water, and fire to spare the dream
Ah, land of dreams, while you are not safe, I am not safe
I can no longer recall the petite sensations of the scene

Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus, finitus
(Nothing is almighty down the neoteric anfractuous waves)

I've seen the best lovers of my generation silenced by the hate

My rose garden night full of guards expecting my least breach
And they would inspect my mouth, my hands, and blood
To make sure I'm not kneeling down to the enemy
That's how they burn the veil that protects freedom from the prompt
That's how they dictate on love and how should I portray
That's how they have my lovemaking wasted
But I still have my Bonnie & Clyde fantasies kept
An act of darkness amidst the crossfire, love will raise

I saw the best souls of my generation stuck in space and time

I lost my pals, I had to find my cantilena on the rhymes
Disconnect all the screens or I would end up blind
Like every time the point is reversed by the line
By now, not even Maloch would want from us a praise
Our withered souls are chemically costumed in carbonate

I wish I could look for refuge on that dreadful typewriter
For tired poets, but Rockland is sound and sober
So in a mortal quiescent complaint here I howl, here I craze

I saw the best angels of my generation abdicate