Wails or the Death of Grunge

I heard the beast wails of my de-generation,
gorging themselves mindlessly, suited in Armani

Prancing through rainbow clover leafs at twilight,
searching for nothing, because nothingness eludes their grasp

Motor headed, deadheads, fixated on a connection that doesn't exist,
Cosmic or other wise

Ecstasy, whose feelgoodforness brings secondary status to meaningless
souls that died when they were conceived

Stillborn in a nirvana of groanginess that never grew or suffered
needlessly,

Achieving immoral-tality by meat hooks piercing notes from smashed
vessels,

The udder futility of staged chaos, a "mooing" chorus of infantile voices
masquerading as the quasi-celebres' of their final millennnium