Long Hipsters Poems
Long Hipsters Poems. Below are the most popular long Hipsters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hipsters poems by poem length and keyword.
Man, let me riff some hip words on the free jazz collective band/their music of free improvisation, and their social rapping Will have you jumpin' out your bones, Man, afteryoudig them you will feel the room tilt and swing/the Quartet of young lions, ready to burn the jazz house down, with no mercy, just a way new thing/Man, they be somethin' else—no more rough roads or tired let down gigs to survive/they have become the boggie down jazz hipsters of today with a suitcase full of New York gigs/They turned Art Blakey's Moanin' inside out, like lights out, and forgetaboutit the way they flipped out Miles Davis' music from Cookin', Relaxin', Steamin', Workin' LP/ It's cool struttin' vibe music that makes you wanna shake your thing/let your brain catch up with your feet and hear the chorus sing what's new/ like a soultrain dance review/ feel the room ignite with the bands music popin' in your ears/a musician may ride one groove, and the clubs crowd may hear another/This new free jazz collective free-for-all jazzmatazz, future funk, acid jazz, young players who won't be put into a box of straight-ahead thinkin'
jazz, Be-bop, hard bop, in a time zone of history that never ends/say it loud, Man, these nu jazz cats are jacked up—proud, unchained/The club audience breathes as one, because every note invites a new world, every horn solo rewrites the books/ the Free jazz collective band have got their hooks in you and won't let go/ the new of today jazz will blaze a future that respects the past but never clones/Man, we move, we groove, we roar with delite, we stay on top of the new jazz thing/ we are jacked up proud, loud and alive—this is where the free jazz collective band jam is bound
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…
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.
(Snapping fingers rhythmically) Vocalese with ease... yeah... moments… improv… Off the top, breath bubbling, a spontaneous combustion of sounds, to be boppin' the melody/
Jazz popping vocal notes of wonderment, feeling the rhyme on beat street dancing lyrics, a rhythm so intrinsic… moments... Mark Murphy... strutting... smokin’… in a vocal breeze/
No wordy rhymes here, pre-packed pronouncements, no way man Murphy just cookin'… and burnin' up … a storm of free to be spoken word jazz vocals… word up, man! the beats/
Kerouac, Phil La Mantia, Cassady, Leroi Jones, AKA Amiri Baraka, Ginsberg, howling chanting, where the poetry hip, the truth seekers, and the social consciousness of the beat generation/
Mark Murphy… workin' the groove. got the spirit of it all... a deep, deep feel/ He was in the top lineup of Jazz Singers of his day/
Not just notes, but the nuance of his body movements on stage, spoken loud/
Mark spoke to the modern hipsters of the scat vocalese jazz speak genre… Effortlessly cool, an urban bohemian... that was Mark/
in the wonderland of jazz, Mark Murphy’s Stolen Moments… real moments, always in the swing of the moment… deep in the jazz vocalese pocket... Mark Murphy lives on… in the bright moment… his Moment... are moments with Mark Murphy (Snap fingers again, fading into silence)
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.
The smell from the burger van hits my nose
It makes me hungry, I'll buy one I s’pose
“Two pound fifty”, the greaseman says
How effin’ much! The price nowadays
For a fat and gristle patty
To make me a fatty
I hand him the money for the sweet smelling lard
It comes on a bread roll that’s bloody rock hard
Two pound fifty, the price nowadays!
“That's the price of convenience”, the greaseman says.
A bargain compared to the bourgeois burgers
Served with salsa, not sauce for the gullible splurgers
Hipsters not greasers
Well trimmed and tweasered
They rob with a smile, “it’s hundred percent Angus”
What the hell’s that mean, I'm hundred percent angryus
That I've fallen for his scam
Paid top dollar for my scram
The greaseman’s plain honesty
that his are **** quality
Gets my vote for his burgers
over up their **** hipsters
Watery ketchup and stale bread rolls
with slightly burnt onions, served by hairy old trolls
Greasemen of Britain, stand up, we salute you
Our nation is proud as we sit on the loo
As vigorous bowel movements let it all out
That's proper street food, that's what it's about
So please believe me, with all my experience
That this is the price you pay for convenience
(Snaps fingers) Let's talk sonic alchemy, a cauldron bubblin' deep/
Rare groove rising, a phoenix from jazz vinyl's pyre/
Acid Jazz is born, setting the soul on fire/ in London's smoky clubs, back when the eighties roared/
A rare groove movement pulsed, a sound from nowhere that knows no bounds/
More like a fusion, a sonic, soulful thing/ Funk's greasy fingerprints, soul's sweet perfume, Hip-hop's swagger, and fusion funky-fresh, street hood blend/
breaking down old skool jazz/
60s Jazz got an electric shock, a story with DJs spinnin' without end/
Acid Jazz they called it, club jazz, groove so deep/ Psychedelic acid , with a Jimi Hendrix riff/
Man, think trumpets with a swagger, bass lines thumpin' thick and low/ A drummer hittin' harder than anyone you know/ samplin' Clyde Stubblefield drum playin' into four beats throbbin', layered tight, a tapestry of sound/ under a heavy sweety groove so damn tight/ the house club DJ scrachin and spinin' Mike Clark's breakthrough funk beat from Herbie Hancock's cut 'Actual Proof" into an Acid Jazz song that is killin and soul funk chillin’/
Vocals droppin' knowledge/ ladies and hipsters the acid groove is here/
From Western Europe rising/
to Japan's electric gleam?
Latin rhythms joining, a collaborative deep beat dream/
United Future Organization, a trio cool and sharp, Brooklyn Funk Essentials, makin’ sure the groove is a hip, tight, wicked mix, of spoken word off the radar chillin’ bland of nu funk horn street soul/
(Beatbox rhythm under the following lines) Club jazz, the Chambers Brothers “Time Has Come” psychedelic acid rock jazz at Its best/
Dig, you gotta let it go Bro/Acid Jazz and the word mechanic band, precise, and into the jazz flo/
Yo, jump out your set, hit the dance floor, you be burnin'' the joint down/
Smooth and cool with rare vinyl uptown charm/
the funk is heavy/ a vibe that chills and thrills/ Acid Jazz ain't just a sound/ man, it's the high life, still. (Snaps fingers again)
I sat on the beach sifting time through my hands.
I felt like a slot machine whore.
The ocean was preaching her Siren’s demand
I abandon my past at the shore.
So, I shook off the sand, turned my back to the surf,
Locked up my anatomy bones, took a number two pencil,
A number nine cloud and set off for the mountains alone.
There was nothing but traffic stretched bumper to butt.
Gave a thought to a change of career.
I was stuck on I-80, my foot on the clutch,
Feeling life slip away in first gear.
Had to exit the freeway and find my way home.
Didn’t miss it, just favored the sound
Of someone I know simply saying, “Hello,
Been too long since we’ve seen you around.”
Found a town full of hipsters with hats made of whims,
And jeans that screamed, “Don’t let me down!”
Spliced the mainbrace on Bank Street and wandered about.
Crossed the bridge to the north side of town.
Grabbed my bat when I got to the ballpark.
Checked my stance when I stepped to the plate.
Eyed a runaway fastball aimed straight for my chin.
Up and in, slammed it far and away.
Felt hard in between and hard in betwixt.
Been disavowed and eighty-sixed.
There’s broke in me that can’t be fixed.
I’m bad, and I’ve never been badder,
But I wonder was it worth it,
The cost of all I had to lose to get here.
I’m a fish out of water that learned how to walk.
A fish out of water for sure.
But I’m living it up like the Duke of Burgoyne
And my Duchess is luscious and pure.
It’s been a long hard road to Easyville
Where I manage my domain on Tunnel Hill.
And I haunt the ravines between Cromby and Mingo,
My barony a triumph of the will.
Spoken Word Poetry: JAZZ ALIVE
Man alive, and this ain’t no jive, I’m diggin’ on jazz to stay alive/
East Coast rhythms from the 50’s and 60’s, in the heart of the city, where the music breaths/
Up all night to dig the modern jazz scene, and out of the cool midnight cookin’ shows at the Blue Note/Located at 131west 3rd St. NYC the place to be/
City lights flashing, hipsters, record buying, dressed to the nines in retro threads at dive bars and clubs where the real jazz magic spreads/
Catch the scene, and get hip to the latest with the 50s swingin’ jazz machine/
Bill Evans Trio, Modern Jazz Quartet, Miles Davis, Lester Young – Can You Feel the Beat/ It’s Milestones with Miles/At that recording, Davis’s bebop/hardbop music was manifesting into his future modal thing/
Milt Jackson, Chet Baker’s smooth serenade, Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” in Five Four Time, John Coltrane’s Cascade, Cannonball Adderley, Wynton Kelly’s embrace, Paul Chamers, Jimmy Cobb, all left their trace/
The city never sleeps, no change of pace, play your gig till 2 AM/
Chase the night with grace/catch a cab, hit the jam, Sweet Basil’s swinging where the music never dims/
Women strong and fierce, oh how they loved their jazz men/
Financial support flowed like a sweet refrain/
“This Here, “Dat Dare,” and “Moanin’” what sounds, in Bobby Timmons groove/you know what I mean/
The Tenor Conclave, Hank Mobley, Al Cohn, John Coltrane, Zoot Sims/ Hi-Fi jam sessions to no end/
Max Roach on the scene, Deeds Not Words, his LP/
Abby Lincoln, Helen Humes, Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington – jazz voices supreme all greats in their prime/
new record companies popping, day into night: Jazzland, Riverside, Atlantic, Prestige all shining bright/
Philly Joe Jones, Blues for Dracula, man what a scene, what a feeling on Halloween’s Eve, back in the day when Everybody dug jazz, but what happened to the Five Spot Café where the legends would play? /
So dig this, I’m walkin’ to Jazz Alley, Soulmates on my cell I know so well, Ben Webster and Zawinul, their melodies swell/
In this world of music vibes, man, I find my reprieve in modern jazz rhythm and choose to believe in the downbeat of jazz to set me free
Spoken warriors, with rhythm words as their sound swords/
A poetry slam where words and body language put the audience in a sweaty heap/
the spectrum of a creative sound off between spoken word poetry rappers and new time jazz hipsters
has the club bustin' to the rafters/ expressive improvised creative pace and volume on the spot word dance/
man, like a spontaneous mind flow composition
of rap talkin' men and women cookin' up a stream of a consciousness groove/ yeah/ like I feel mile high now/
iconic on-stage impulses of slant rhyme life spoken word poetry/ back-n-forth they go/ words in high gear/ pedal to the metal/ on race, racial slurs, sex, who's doin' who, drive Bys, and TV shows/
like words driving' at a hundred MPH/
becoming telephone poles wizin' by/
high voltage sparks fly when spoken word funk meets uptown nu jazz poetry/
African American poets along with Native American spoken word artists come together to duel it out in a Poetry slam/
it helps to feel the natural flow of high energy words in this performance poetry slam jam/
No reading from pages, just memory’s embrace/
save the date bro It's live with no rewind/
this slam is somethin' else man/
you be reelin' in the feelin' when this Poetry jam becomes a fusion of rhythm word speak on struggles, courage, dreams, love, hip hop rap, and using voice beat drum licks in between word spit speak/
a landscape of uninhibited words with body drum chest thumps/ yo, do you see and feel what i'm sayin'
the dynamic instrument of a voice workin the mic to the crowd with MCs shouting back at ya while you be poppin your performance skills on stage/
the interplay between the mind and free spirit WTF thoughts be burnin the house down/
who's gonna wear the slam crown?
they be back flipping' and word trippin' these slam poets/
trying to outdo each other in a face off/
word lyricism with scat rap concepts/
diggin' deep into emceeing the joint/
keepin' the flow and staying on the beat