An Apotheosis, or Dutch Palmas

O, Generation revered
above all others.
O, generation of fictitious
Ofays
I revere you...
You are all so beautiful
—Imamu Amiri Baraka, Hymn for Lanie Pooh

Still? Still purse clutched, wallet groped, car door locked ad infinitum,
toward neurotic borough rendered Anglo-American Primitive?
What strange fruit betrothed. Flung against grotesque light.
Swaggering into room, infernal waltz, down world-mouths, distilled.
Bravado, a Don Draper sales pitch (but black). Hopeless'd conjugal,
mellanoid vexed holy, hurry with my damned croissants.
Dough leavened for tomorrows' raison debts and yesterday's
cause celebre licked off stale crumbed plates. Nom Nom Nom.
Semantic condoms worn by latex troubadours and sweet fuck all.
Before mangled beds of dalliance, or bouquets withered lyrical,
between jagged ass crack, ebbed ineffable. From callused feet
to callous concrete, to ashtrays mocking Freud. Ugly italicized is still ugly.
There, there, wash down the coitus. Swallow your Braque tongue,
bid adieu to Ice Cubes' melting street cred. Ah, see how beauteous?
Biodegradable angels plucking styrofoam harps, my nose smeared
eternal, betwixt Taylor Swift's twat. Bleeding, look skyward now,
lest thou miss my gluten-free ascent.