I saw the best minds of my generation collapse their easels, brushes left to harden under an angry sun,
dragging themselves through fashionably designed advertising agencies at dawn,
to shill diet soda and mobile broadband,
who, knuckles ragged, mind frayed and lips bitten, ’shopped Miranda’s smile just so in time for the DJ’s deadline,
who put down the works of the great novel to write boiler plate for a group deals website,
who eschewed suffering, poverty and eternity for free samples and lavish Christmas parties,
who used books on the collected works of Picasso and Matisse to prop up the telly for a better view of the second season of Mad Men,
who talked continuously for seventy hours on the implications of placement and neural marketing and social media and the June Adbusters and the latest campaign is really starting to cook,
who struggled to work ‘Colgate Palmolive’ into iambic pentameter,
who turned a deaf hear to Foucault, Baudrillard and Greenberg and got into bed with Saatchi, Alderson and Draper.
What sphinx of sugar and plastic bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
David Lyndon