Best Hipsters Poems
When I lay my head to rest
I will only dream of the best
Memes of rare
They are very fair
To my lonely mind.
King Pepe of Green
Welcomes me and Sir Dean
To a teens dream scene.
There are many ornate beans
In this lovely scene
of the Meme Dream.
But soon,King Pepe calls his troops.
The hipsters has stole our soups!
We must find the nonentities and the snoops
They will jump into hoops to save the soups!
Dean is prone so I must find the subgroups
Suddenly,my eyes open to reality
I cry in glee
because you see,
The memes won and gained the key
Categories:
hipsters, adventure, funny,
Form:
Rhyme
Symbiosis
Sitting on that rock
Like a suburban mermaid,
You look like a lost girl
With a long sad story to tell.
So honey, why don’t we
Mosey on over to Wide-track Town,
Where the freeways meet in purgatory;
There are singing hipsters there,
Dressed in the regalia of the deranged,
Sniffing salt through straws,
There are ten thousand latex surfers
Returning from the dead,
Returning from their brief sojourn
In the distant backwaters,
The yellowish green sulfur waters,
That seep into your bare flesh,
And send mad biting impulses
Straight into your seething soul.
Ah, yes! So, how long have you had that…
Pardon me honey, but,
Is that a bruise on your neck?
Or maybe it is the love-bite I recently
Gave you, as we rode in the back seat
Of a lavender blue 72’ Land Yacht,
Spread out fine under a blanket,
As Broten, up front, steered us down the long highway,
Through a lit-up suburbia,
Like a chrome dragon spitting smoke from its butt.
Kissing you, honey, is a meal unto itself.
Like eating electric spit
With a dash of salt!
Now is the time,
Now is the moment to touch you.
If you don’t want me to,
I won’t…
Sitting on that rock,
Just like a seducing mermaid.
So, honey, what exactly is your story?
Why don’t we mosey on over to Wide-track Town?
We can talk incessantly until the stars appear,
We can watch the latex surfers find nirvana,
And I can give your daring thigh,
My thirty-minute love bite.
Categories:
hipsters, girlfriend,
Form:
Free verse
As the Dime Store sirens flared
bolts of irradiated invite,
my query was denied.
Their pimp-striped pilots only moaned,
their lust fueled by encapsulated
stench carried only by toothless carnies
from the canyons. Canyons o’ Crazed Confliction.
And behind… the dull dynamo hum.
I screamed for the Kelp Queen to come to me,
her tresses woven wave-like in the wabe.
My demands were simple.
The scars of the trucker's she must carry
(as war carries death)
for inbreeding has tainted her line.
“Can Omaha be far?” she pleaded
and tugged at my inter-ache
as tin balloons tug with time .
“For you?” I replied in a
flatulent belch.
The boiling madness was by now
beyond the horizon but kept in check
still by the neon dogs crouching by day under the interchange.
It is they who will now stalk the disease plagued ports
I sailed from so many
days
and
images
ago.
Until her kleptic crew of vagrants and priests
sprint with me in postpartum harmony.
Hipsters for TRUTH.
Categories:
hipsters, dream, fantasy, imagery, nonsense,
Form:
Narrative
Zeitgeist
Moon rock
Media magnets
Overlords
Underlords
Kings
Queens
Yee of means
Purveyors of wealth
Bankers
Oligarchy
Politicians
Celebrities
Hipsters
Fashionista
Dictator
Police
Army
Giant's of industry
Order
Order
Documentary
Meaning
Dancing in a clown mask
Categories:
hipsters, slam,
Form:
Free verse
Mazsi the cat was strolling one night,
when came down the road, a most curious sight.
A yellow striped cat with a jazzy coat,
big brimmed hat, bow tie ‘round his throat.
Mazsi had to smile at such a silly sight,
this striped yellow cat, thought he looked just right.
Twirling a gold chain in his right paw,
stepping down the street, waving at kittens he saw.
He walked up to Mazsi and gave her a look,
then all over his body he shook and shook.
“Well lookey here at what I see,
if you’re not the prettiest kitty there be.”
Mazsi gave him a look and said to him,
“You’re the kookiest cat from shoe to brim.”
That jazzy cat was taken aback,
how could this kitty, him attack.
“Come now kitty, surely you can see,
I’m the coolest cat, there ever will be.
Come join me tonight and let down your hair,
you and I can be a shmizally pair.”
“With you by my side we can dancel all night,
you and me such a jazzical sight.
It’s down to the dance hall for a special affair,
all of the hipsters and swingers are there.”
Mazsi was curious and would like to party,
but this crazy cats’ brain, seemed a bit tardy.
“I know you think you’re quite hip,
but on my radar you’re just a blip.”
Cool Cat begged, “Come on, you kittiest of cats,
I dressed for the night, right down to my spats.
Take my paw and I’ll show you the town,
we’ll swing and dance till the moon goes down.”
Mazsi took his paw and right was he,
he showed her the most fun there ever could be.
Down at the Dance Hall a crowd had formed,
under the moonlight the night was transformed.
Cats of all colors were dancing to jazz,
laughing and singing with pizzazz.
Hubba hubba and root toot toot,
across the dance floor the two did scoot.
The moon sank low and music got slow,
everyone knew it was time to go.
Mazsi and Cool Cat had stolen the show,
won the trophy, Mazsi and her new beau.
Robert G Stoner Jr ©
Categories:
hipsters, fun, poetry,
Form:
Rhyme
Welcome to the internet,
Where basic freedoms are embedded into the hard drives.
Where the memes help you through life.
Where Socially Awkward Penguin holds the door open too long, while Socially Awesome Penguin opens it for a lovely girl.
Where Scumbag Steve shows us the scumbag in all of us, and Good Guy Greg shows us our goodness.
The memes may describe the human actions, but not always the human thoughts.
Wordpress and blogger anger people, yet pushes them to protest.
Twitter, allowing little snippets from your brain escape, all in 140 characters or less of course.
Friendster, the hipsters’ domain of range.
Facebook being fought over by teenagers and adults since 2005.
YouTube, the keeper of memories, keeper of pain, keeper of anger, keeper of happiness, keeper of love.
Vevo, the music video enthusiasts’ devil, and God.
Welcome to the internet, It’s just a world fashioned by 0’s and 1’s that seems too real...
Categories:
hipsters, adventure, america, analogy, computer,
Form:
Free verse
remember these rich kids
who moved from downtown
Manhattan,
after the towers fell,
out into the uncharted territories of
Bushwick & those regions of
Brooklyn, which had once been
lined with 3 story houses (or fewer)
& whose skyline one could
see over,
when stores, music venues &
cheeseball clubs were
closer to the exception than the rule,
when there were genuine poor people
who dressed the way that they could
afford,
when these mungo hipsters
didn’t plague the land like the
rats that come squealing out from
beneath the garbage bags piled up
outside their loft buildings,
remade factories, which now serve
as high income palaces
with the guise of low income &
the sprawl of fake-poor in the land of
the
cool.
these hipsters would bump from
thrift store to thrift store,
shopping with mommy & daddy’s money
(now safe from the downtown “terrorist
threats”)
in order to look like they were straight from
the 1970’s, like corduroy everything
was somehow a part of the 21st century,
like sideburns were the way of the
future---
parading with pocketbooks full of cash
which would allow them to frequent the
sushi bars that had sprung up or
pop from expensive café to expensive café
without a second thought
about the same exact dream that they all had
followed,
from the white picket fences in the suburbs of
bumble**** wherever,
to transplant themselves into the
dumpster diving
“soul” searching
snot nosed brats
that lit the fuse for gentrification
all over what used to be
Brooklyn.
Categories:
hipsters, life,
Form:
Free verse
Okay, so most of us are either atheists or belong to some kind of religion, even if loosely. The religion likely demands that the convert love and respect the deity, therefore making the great majority of theists eutheists.
With that out of the way, has anyone ever even met a misotheist?
What's the deal with that?
We see the crossfire between christians and Good Prophet Dawkins followers on youtube comment threads, but you just don't hear about misotheists.
They believe in god, but hate and distrust him.
Christian misotheists are aware that they are going to hell under their understanding of the world, yet are resigned to this fate due to their personal moral code not to serve a god they believe is evil.
I don't think there are actually any misotheists. Just hipsters who might answer censuses with it, and list 'domestic partnership' as their marital status.
If there was one, though, I'd like to meet him. That's one badass motherf*cker.
*Footnote: I googled 'misotheist antonym' while writing this.
Categories:
hipsters, allah, , atheist,
Form:
Free verse
This is Norfolk
Feet stamp the sidewalk
Flap flap flapping
Off to somewhere, anywhere
A hot summer day in the city
With nothing and everything to do
Streets cars people buzz, a sturdy hive
All I hear is the wind across my water bottle
Humming a melody of the distant seas
Of sailors’ tales new and old
Far from this life on the brink of the ghetto
Cool water brings relief from the southern swelter
This is Norfolk
Azalea buds roll by
Like fuschia hipsters on a mission
Too focused on the next big thing
Nor pay mind to a country girl like me
Nothing and everything here is like home
Comfortably unfamiliar
A longing for the simplest gesture of welcome
Just like these streets I am
Caught in the middle of fitting in and belonging
Too misused to be treasured, yet too offbeat to be forgotten
My potato and your grits make an unconventional union
This is my Norfolk.
Categories:
hipsters, introspection, life, urbanlonging, water,
Form:
Dear Sharon, I see no end
To the rant of an educated mind
Once the pen is moving. I've seen A students
Butcher my writing. I remember the Fall
Of 2009, the poetry workshop at Stony Brook University,
The hipsters and emotional braggers
Eying my work and telling me what it was about
While the smirk on my face concealed
The howls of piteous laughter.
I walked the solemn paths
Of that heavily decorated school
Where trees had been uprooted
And replaced by foster bushes,
Convinced that my English professors
Do not know how to read, but only how
To dissect.
However, I also remember the A on my report.
It was the proudest one I'd ever had,
And I thought of the first day of class
When we were asked to choose a poet
To fall in love with.
I thought of the summer of 2006
When I walked into a little book store in Hampton Bays,
Pointing my freckle tipped nose at the poetry section,
Looking for something new
To look up to or somebody else
To look into.
I picked through the leaves of Blood, Tin and Straw
By the shelf, at the register and on the way to my car.
I read it to friends and perfect strangers
As a devout fan and penniless salesperson.
I did not take notes or scribble on the pages.
I did not create bull- in the hopes to expound
Some undiscovered truth
Between the style and context.
I did not uncover the root of your sorrows and joy,
For you had already done the task
So perfectly.
Mrs. Olds, you and I find solace
In a dying art. I see you as a friend
As I've seen you as
A lover, a mother, and a mentor
Through the gift of a vivid imagination
Where I've been given the chance
To love and applaud your work
In the comfort of my room,
Under the flickering light
Where the renditions of your heart
Lure me to sleep
As a silent lullaby.
It is an artist like you who keeps me writing.
It is knowing the chances,
That if my words can reach a soul
Like yours have reached mine,
Then there is still purpose in contemporary poetry
In my home, my heart, and my spirit
Outside of the classroom.
Categories:
hipsters, dedication, school, thank youme,
Form:
Free verse
I see it more and more as Fall comes in,
the fabric fears not the chill or wind,
often brushed and soft, like a blanket’s grasp,
and for many years a good one with last.
Whether it be Black Watch or Buffalo Check,
there’re a thousand patterns, what will be next?
I think when it all is said and done,
that flannel is truly made of awesome.
Be it expensive or sewn with no thrills,
I find it much nicer then wearing twill,
whether it is cotton or old-school wool,
it keeps cold out, and that’s no bull.
Warming lumberjacks in the forests gloom,
or Hipsters who make you pray for doom,
the nineties music scene would come undone,
without that flannel, made of awesome.
You can layer it against winter’s bite,
wear it alone on cool summer nights,
in Autumn it is our uniform,
but it’s not just shirts, it is so much more.
As a soft blanket, or a thermal sheet,
it protects well against chilly feet,
line your jeans with it and winter is won,
thanks to that flannel, made of awesome.
Inside your slippers or a heavy coat,
on frost-touched mountains or foliage boats,
in a hunter’s kits, animals to fool,
or rich folk who want ‘working-class cool,’
worn by poor souls just fighting the cold,
be it classic plain, or so loud and bold,
as a fabric it is second-to-none,
'cause flannel is truly made of awesome.
And cotton. Awesomeness and a whole lot of cotton.
Categories:
hipsters, appreciation, autumn, cool, fun,
Form:
Rhyme
Well he wakes up early,
when the sun breaks ‘cross the land.
Then he goes out on the river,
high up on the logs he stands.
For counting twenty years now
he’s been a river-driving man.
And he don’t do anything else…
He drives that timber
down the river with the flow.
He always knows the river
will determine where it goes.
When it jams upon the curves,
he clears it out with a pole.
Dangerous job too…
Sometimes the logs they
get snagged up on the rocks.
If he don’t go get ‘em,
the whole river they will block.
But the sawmill is awaiting,
and he knows they’re on the clock.
Time is money, boys, time is money…
More than once now,
this man has fell right in.
The half-frozen water,
it starts him shivering.
One day he may test the river,
and the river it might win.
River gets like that when it’s mad…
One say some hippies
got a rule made by the state.
No more drives on the river,
it’s ‘too dirty’ and ‘not safe.’
From now on the lumber
will move by trucks and trains.
Hippies ruin everything, don’t they?
Now he sits at the diner,
shootin’ bull with Norma Jean.
He goes down to the fair,
and he wins at the log-rolling.
It just ain’t the same though,
and nobody is hiring.
That’s always how it is…
These days we got hipsters,
of lumberjacks they are a fan.
Everywhere you see flannel,
but not a single calloused hand.
The world it has no place for
an old river-driving man.
Yes, the world it has no space for
an old river-driving man…
Categories:
hipsters, history, loss, men, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
No the world is not for me.
it's for suburban hitlers
who indulge in protocol wars
and middle class wives
in camaro jeeps.
No the world is not for me
but for trendy young things
and stylish hipsters.
it's for politicians,
who will caress your prejudices into a vote.
or for doctors with dollar sign ethics
and wallet surgeons who sign insurance plans.
or those sad soldiers that fall to their knees before a flag,
who believe killing strangers abroad will set us free.
No the world is not for me.
who shouldn't be let near paper or pen,
not with these grubby hands
and beerbelly eyes.
that spend their days
laying cement and nailing joists
and trying to quench an unstoppable thirst.
Categories:
hipsters, anger, prejudice,
Form:
Free verse
NYC nior in black and white
NYC nior in black and white
Dark landscapes 1957 NYC
of automats radio city and hotdog stands
memories of things past
Take us back to lucid dreams of light and shadows cast
set the stage late night dark wet NY detectives on the beat
slow moving like grit and steel they stride down the great white way
steam and clouds shoot to the sky from sewer covers
smoke rings blast out from bill boards of urban midnight cowboys
from route 66
On the street hipsters glide down in pinstriped suits
cool sleek long with straddled watch chains dragging
smoking stogies from drooping lips
wing tipped shoes rested on black boxes at shoe shiners row at 53rd and lex
wanting fem defal’s dark diva’s in fish nets tight red skin dresses with sleek spike heels long cigarettes with long brim hats and netted veils as they walk the line swinging their Purses leaning against posts on the foggy corners
Dharma bums gaze at city lights dreaming of old bards songs
through garment push carts and rushing feet
in the machinery of the steamy night
the boxcars moving past open doors
The cities glare in shadows bare
neon signs striptease flashing in the backdrop of honking horns and traffic
night clubs casinos and one night stands in greasy motels
pool hall hustler’s poker players loan sharker's and scheamers
whisky bars dockyard and widowed screams
tenement houses windows open curtains drawn
sweat and muscle tee shirts yelling out to others
saxophone city of butchers boozers bribers and brown baggers
Bright yellow checkers and taxis on Times Square
down the smoke hazed dark lanes against the hard walls
slim Jim zoot suiter’s lazy dazed side leaning
roll loaded dice with steaming cheap Tricks
Newspaper stands and barbers shops with marbled checker floors
white steaming towels with waiting hot lather
man with straight edge and black leather strap leans over
with Sinatra playing in the back
Neon city balanced in chaotic disorder of abstract lines
of municipal signs
city where monk lady day and Coltrane play Improve
in old coffee houses of smoke filled cafes for pennies a day
as street poets whisper and drink their troubles away
dreaming of Brando bogie smoking Joe's and blondes
of slip hips and jive
Categories:
hipsters, imagery,
Form:
Free verse
• Those Meat Pies/Tony Adamo/2011
Straight to the head groove in hip time/ lay me out man It's jam time/ Ya know the funk is slight/ It's tight/ bright syllables in five four time/Walkin' the beat on low down street/ her hips got me in a deep trip/ high on the smell of her sex/ her ex is Ted the freaky flex/ sippin a black coffee brew on a hot musky day/ lovin you baby is the only way/walkin' the dog on a four lane highway/ drum sticks as chop sticks/ Man do fries go with that shake/ subway fusion' dance hall bumpin' grinding bodies to the iphone dance/ can you see it? Love has got you in the trance/ the acid head trip/ street corner junkies lyin' bout their lives/ mama makin' those meat pies/ dive in brother and sisters the hipsters teachin" ya how to side step the squares/ have it your way love on the rocks with a hard knock chaser/ Man I'm flyin out JFK/ get me outta here I changed my mind straight up/ my passport says Paris France/ My feet say hip me to the nearest dance/ Where's that ladder at? I need to climb out of this heat/ Art Blakey and the jazz messengers birdland brunin/better grab your girlfriend cause she's in love with the band/ Clifford Brown/
Brownie was the man/ dead at 25/his influence lay heavy on those young cats
including Donald Byrd, Lee Morgan, Booker Little, Freddie Hubbard, Woody Shaw, Wallace Roney,/ I put a match book cover under a table lag to help me balance up my thoughts on settin up shop to sell my jazz vinyl / No free give away today/ wait was it true/ the great Gerry Mulligan was waiting tables at a little jazz dive called the ashtray/ waiting for the nite to fall so he could jump the stage and free himself/ be himself into the kool jazz scene/(Chet Baker Sings, It Could Happen to You/ Me? yes you bro/ Mike Clark and the Headhunters/ What was that he said?/ oh it's Thelonious Monk in shades and beret/ diggin life the Thelonious way
Tony Adamo Hipspoken Word
Categories:
hipsters, freedom,
Form:
Free verse