Bullhorns, Meet "Fuck"

Cultured arrogance is bursting through vacancies,
Seldom whistle tunes of universal relevance.
Cranberry riddles secrete out the cheeks,
Smells more sacred than religion.
Hazy harmonies flock to gaping tool sheds and burn,
Burn a deeper chrome.
Every shade is ever more vibrant, but lack the genuine glow.
Am I scared of disheveled trumpets? Their drones pluck my passions.
Voluptuous like Rosetta's stone, but cataclysmic all the same.
So this is youth, or is this youth? A bag full of nerves claiming to know truth.
And maybe they're right. They mastodon-march inside that leather bag-husk,
Pupa husk, larvae line-routines.
Another bullshit cry from antique bullhorns falls brittle on
Ears of orgasms and attention, redefining the wheel, the classic cool.
But it's so hard to believe, so hard to accept, when I am one of them.
Or am I that out of touch? How can I be, when these sonnets are
Exactly the fucking same? The classic cool, redefined.
Where is elegance? Where is eloquence? Where is ambiguity? Where is anonymity?
So this is youth.
So this is youth.
So this is youth.