Youth Splatter

Genertation Art (Revised Version)

The vomit of the collective masses:

Dollar signs, diamonds,

Cosmopolitan advertisements dripping with

Angular, bony models

Plastic, manufactured Gautreaus

 and Flaming Junes

McDonald’s grease-streaked faces hiding underneath

Mosaics of cellophane tears

                                                                                                                 And capitalistic blankets

Slowly asphyxiating them,

                                            Meek and benign,

Like an Angel of Mercy smothering a sick, dying baby.

The disheartened prose mingles between glossy photographs -

Cut outs of paper thin ladies in satin underpants or

Pseudo-tough gals,

Faux brutes wearing their roughneck-tough like the next fashion,

Cigarette pressed firmly between pouty lips,

A sexy revolver strapped to the hips.

Strewn together

So haphazardly,

Even they have no idea what it all means, but it looks good, right?

Tapped into the brains of a million consumer hungry youths,

Strangled by the cords of their Iphone chargers,

Regurgitating the pixilated words from their last text message.

Last Supper TV Trays serve food for thought-

Eat and puke back up, purge and binge.

Brain cells spume like bubbles in an IV, balloon and burst open, then get

Vigorously gobbled up by the masses, the media.

It’s art.

-Ashley Ryan AKA Olive.

Fire Breathers

Ominous smoke stacks

statuesque and soaring

blistering the heavens

with industrial arms

It kisses the locals with

soot, smog and mist

delivering a death wish

with cancerous lips

We-the Gods of savage giants-

cradle life in hopeful intentions

while we paint the sky

with nuclear sunsets,

toxic gas

One day we will

cut a hole beyond the clouds

way up high

with vapors like razors

and the sun will bleed through ,

scorching the land

until we resemble the ashes

from our industrious

fire-breathing dragons

We are what we create

Generation Art

Chewing out your proverbial blood splatter and expectorating it out,

vomit of the collective masses,

even your hymns sound the same.

McDonald’s grease-streaked faces,

mosaic of cellophane tears blanketing my peers faces,

slowly asphyxiating them,

meek and benign,

like an Angel of Mercy smothering a crack baby.

Your disheartened prose mingles between glossy photographs -

cut outs of paper thin ladies in satin underpants or

pseudo-tough gals,

faux brutes wearing their roughneck-tough like the next fashion,

cigarette pressed firmly between pouty lips,

a sexy revolver strapped to the hips.

Strewn together

so haphazardly,

even you have no idea what it all means, but it looks good, right?

Tapped into the brains of a million defunct and mortified youths,

strangled by the cords of their Iphone chargers,

regurgitating the pixilated words from their last text message.

Last Supper TV Trays serve food for thought-

eat and puke back up, purge and binge.

Brain cells spume like bubbles in an IV, balloon and burst open, then

vigorously gobbled up by the masses, the media. It’s art.

-Ashley Ryan

Untitled

I’ve always lived two miles away

from forgiveness

but I could never quite get there

For my pockets always empty

never enough bus-fare

Too many roadblocks

in my path

and those glittering. napalm orange signs 

that read “detour”

So I travel on foot

dirt roads, wet grass and fields

I lay amidst mountains

next to giant weeping willows

Trying to set my soul to rest

Restless,

I toss and turn at night

drowning in thorns and thistle

Uncomfortable, trapped inside

a body whose hands may draw blood,

and a tongue that spits steel

I wander,

I won’t rest

‘Til everyone forgets

I travel to that great church

with the rusty, red steeple

The same church you speak of when you say

“they’ll cure even the likes of you someday.

You know, they’ll even baptize devils.”

I sit on heavenly stairs

and listen to the hymns sung proudly about guilt

and pray if I listen, I’ll transform into an angel

But instead I wander

Never resting

Perpetual transient

in the street

I’ve always lived two miles down

from the big court house they call forgiveness

Locked up in

bricks and bars and bricks

and bars

unable to disprison. 

-ASHLEY RYAN

First. 15. Summer. Spit.

First- the spit.

Spit-smooth like salt licks

Like the sweat sliding down my face

As we sit and kiss

With anesthetized mouths

And sun-cracked lips

The sweat, the sun, the sweat, the sun

Bruising every bit of our young skin

Melting into puddles of brine

The merge and the mingle of salvia,

cheese pizza, Mountain Dew

Clinging to our lips

Soft, wet, boy mouth

Like a salt lick

Bitter ocean taste

Waves of flesh

Sucking on salt

Glowing, sheltered by boredom and

Thirst

Carnality

Underneath a hot summer             Sun

                                            (Love)

Dishin’ out spit like fists

-Me, Ashley Ryan AKA Olive

allwrappedinplain asked: I really really like your writing.

Thanks!! :)

My baby licking on some cute, cuddling millipedes after we dropped some lucy.