Anthem for Fucked Youth
What bells ring for those who totter vacantly?
Only the monstrous anger of the drunken thugs
Only the machine gun rattle of laughter
Can down the last orders from their mugs
Endless mockeries for them who vacuously stare
In search of laughs and empty pleasure
Bitter rebuke and mindless eyes glare
As their anorexic souls store their pointless treasure
What meaning for those who cruise to enjoy
Not in the bodies of girls, but in their eyes
Glazed dreams of abuse and lies
The gelled hair and dangling shirt
Designer labels and trainered feet
Now lobotomised cattle on the street
Wilfred Owen is one of my favourite poets. I wrote this poem after making my way through the comatose crowds in the centre of town for whom the purpose of life is merely to attain unconsciousness.
I heard no discussion taking place about the purpose of life. No philosophical discourse. No in depth analysis of prose, poetry or philosophy; no appreciation of book, film or song, just the clatter of high heels, the swagger and sway and the gormless glazed glare.
Like cattle in a field they go instinctively towards their demise.
There was violence, anger and hostility. It reminded me of a battlefield.
These were the days when the bell tolled for last orders and the streets filled with tottering figures looking for a shag, fight or incredibly a curry.
They were a sad and sorry sight – an army of empty-heads. The gas-attack will come as a surprise.