Authenticity

The truth of youth...

Generations of rabble-rousers

Shit-kickers and cultural remixers

Flattened by the dollar.

Starved for the authentic,

The cultural rebels are gone.

Too old and invisible,

The fuckability mandate

Shoves them off the belly

Of the media monster.

Those whose ideals

Were too massive, too unshakeable,

Impervious to dilution,

Were eaten from within.

But if you choose to hang on,

If the death pod has yet to become

Your only option,

Where do you go?

That slice of Brooklyn,

Served on a sheet of aluminum,

Now packed neatly in a recycled cardboard box

with a three-colour stamp that reads:

Papa John's.