1982 or ‘69 Redux

Punk rock was still novel then, and with it,
We embraced violence and destruction,
Delinquency and desolation, lighting fires
At White Gates among the rusting hulls
Of abandoned cars, worn out sofas, and
Bullet riddled appliances, dancing through 
The flames in an embrace of all that consumes,
The darker side of America’s taut stretched
Monotheism, shunned by the light, forgetting
That we were once tucked-in at night in our
Snoopy pajamas under Dinosaur sheets to 
Wait for Santa Clause and the Easter Bunny,
And the smell of Doc Martins, their souls 
Melting, melding, unifying with the shit that 
Found its way into the hungry embers filled
The air, mixing with shockwaves of dust
Which rose from the thundering feet of 
Eight or ten boys, slamming their way around
A ring of fire, shouting  “Fuckin’ eh!”
To the pulse driving power of Social Distortion.

David R. Miller's Questions:

What is your first impression?  Does it make you sad, or can you sense a feeling of ebullient reminiscence?  Does this poem manage to stir a bit of sympathy for those of us who tried to find a new path on an old planet?  Whadda ya think?