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Thursday Nov 2018
Stuck in the vortex
Of thinking you know everything
But knowing nothing
Guess we're all Hipsters?
Emma Nov 2018
half fake love
but it's half real
my mind is dizzy, don't know what to feel
sad waves come back to the shore
and when i leave you i come back wanting more
try not to think of you all of the time
but more often than not you slip into my mind
yeah.
Brandon Conway Jul 2018
Start the happy synth
Cue the steady drum
Come in with the sly bass
Whistle the hipster hum
Move your feet to match pace
Dance with me now love

A chemical swirl got us moving
A chemical swirl will put us to sleep
But for now, while night is looming
Don’t stop moving those feet.
Kagey Sage Mar 2018
What’s new about Hipsters? It’s not that they're the first co-opted counter-culture, far from it. The Beats were co-opted. The Sentimentalists, over 200 years ago, were co-opted before capitalism was so industrious. It’s not even new that calling a ***** a ***** is offensive. “Hippies,” “Beatniks,” “Emos;” all insulting labels for youth that thought they were much more.

There it is, or some of it, perhaps. Does the current so-called counter-culture feel like they’re part of something much more? Even without labels, I don’t think they think of themselves as a counter-culture at all. The worst part about it is the Hipsters and  non-Hipsters are really much the same. Falling for a similar niche, but feeling like they ain’t.

We all like flannel, thick glasses, and good beers. We’re all killing Applebee’s. We’re the waitstaff there who laughs at ourselves, cause we’re just so low-down. Not the last, but toward the bottom rung of a ladder that once meant progress beyond our parents’ lives. We stand for nothing and everything, because a secure tomorrow seems unlikely and unwanted. Beget suburban kids like our parents did? Could I buy them as much as I had? A student loan on top of a mortgage, I think I’m better off paying exorbitant rent. Plus, it just feels more temporary, like everything else.

Late twenties, long passed the age my parents conceived, I’m getting old. Lack of full adult independence, still feel floated in embryonic fluid, trying not to give juvenile hopes up.  Qualified for that secure job, but is it open? Maybe I’ll have to move down South. Just like everyone else.

At least there’s always music. Nearly a century of recorded songs. Indie, Scene, and Emo; the last real counter-cultures associated with rock genres, and most practitioners scoffed at these labels. Why didn’t Punks or Metal Heads care?

More pressing, what is the newest rock genre? Emo faded nearly 10 years ago. Some formation of Americana seems sorta fitting now. Not far from that “Indie” umbrella,  it’s what Hipsters seem to like most, at least in the TV commercials. These more choral, sometimes bluesy bands. Some are good, but it’s nothing new.

Now, the algorithms anticipate evolution years in advance. All tastes like Styrofoam, so we spit it out fast. We keep skipping tracks to futility escape the same persistent hum. All the price for our growing clairvoyance. Telescopically, we are flying fast into a wall that ends originality. Too many citations needed. We enter them into software to manage. Our fear of plagiarism makes one uninfluenced instead of inspired. We just make homages. Turn anything creative into a list of allusions.

We forgot to forget
Suspend St. Anselm
patron of using rationality
to explain away one’s faith
in magic and mystery
God exists because
all we can imagine must exist
Your unicorns are but
a mind’s fusion of
horse and narwhal
and your culture is but
a culmination of has-been trends
So it’s all been done
Why try to change a thing?
Why try to be new?

This is the end. Not reflecting and absorbing past cultures with an eye to the future. But judging and consuming past cultures with with a carnal now. There are some niceties to be gained in solely present preoccupations. Yet, no Buddha abounds in these selfish meditations. We are no longer the bodhisattvas, suspending enlightenment to save all beings. “We’re woke, because we know we’re ******” Then we type a symbol for “laugh out loud,” while our mouths stayed closed. We take a morning slug and drive off to work. The complexity of our controllers v. the simple fleeting pleasures. What can I do? Why should I bat an eye at the way the world works?
https://www.adbusters.org/article/hipster-the-dead-end-of-western-civilization/
vanessa Mar 2018
we’re just teenagers
hair whipping in our beat-up trucks teenagers
gas station food at 3 am teenagers
love too hard and lose yourself teenagers

some people wonder why we hate
everything

we touch the rays of sunrise
with our snapchat flower crowns
and skate park supernovas
and with our glass-pane-collarbones
peeking out from black bomber jackets,
fragile fingertips emerge from sweater paws.

we capture our feelings in polaroids
our emotions swallowed up
by bottles and our youth
it’s the life we think we know

and all they ever wanted us to do
was *****

we’re just teenagers
soda can sizzle teenagers
lungfuls of shattered dreams teenagers
disintegration conversation teenagers

but the reason why we break so easily
is because we’re humans too.
yikes is this an aesthetic
anon Nov 2017
i have a question
are you

***

or just

a hipster

i never can really tell
you dress the way
of either

your poetry
provides
no hints

you compliment
girls
and complement
their interests
and yet you never
date
any

yet you get along
with guys
and don't seem
to flirt
but i could
just have
a weak gaydar

so are you ***
or just a hipster

taking pictures
writing poetry
dressing well
and flowery

like oscar wilde
you're a dandy
and just like him
we don't know
your true love
identity

you could be ***
or just be
basic
liking dudes
(or dudettes)
before it was cool

so before you sip
your corporate
starbucks

riddle me this

do you like guys
or vinyl more

do you need a beard
or want a hipster beard

do you fancy testosterone
or organic cupcakes

are you ***
or just a hipster
Joshua Haines Oct 2017
French vanilla Converse,
  taupe-boxed flannel (too big),
and an American Spirit burning,
  real, real slow. What a hipster ****;
what a culture-eating parasite.
  He says, 'Read Proust with me.'
He says something about how
  his dad is dead but not in
a literal sense; metaphorically.
  I was never interested in that part
in the avant-garde spoken poetry Friday nights.

  I bust into the bathroom
and *****, grasping
  Bed Bath and Beyond clearance items.
The walls are the same shade
  of green as my skin.
A hand pets my thigh and I'm told
  it'll all be okay.
How those knuckles knew,
  I'll never know.
shiv Sep 2017
How do i make it hurt less
If nobody is left to help.
How do i make it hurt less
When i don't want to be saved.
Megan Sep 2017
We are the kids
Who want to feel alive
We want to feel liberated and beautiful and young.
We are the sad youth.
Of cutting
And anti-depressants
Praying for some one to save us
From ourselves,
When our minds are dark
And we are alone.
We are the wild youth.
Of late nights
And city lights
With our lungs filled with smoke
And adrenaline pumping through our veins.
We are the lonely youth.
Where no one knows our thoughts
And no one understands
But God, how we wish they would.
We are the hipster indie youth.
We don't do it for the aesthetic
Because this is who we are
We live our lives in black white
And sometimes, someone beautiful
Adds in the most vibrant color.
We are the wandering youth.
Searching, exploring, running, grasping
At whatever we can
That make us see
There is hope
And wonder
And brilliance in the world.
We are the youth of today
We are different
But we are human.
We are the youth.
And even if our youth is fading,
The memories we made aren't.
I hope that when you read this, you remember moments that made you feel sad, happy, in love and alive. I really hope you do.
sophia sacal Aug 2017
You are car rides
Across the city,
Windows rolled down;
Both of us drunk in oxygen.

You are crazy sunglasses,
The warm sun
illuminating your face,
Your face aglow with
the light of the universe.

You are the softly sung lyrics
Of all my favorite songs,
The melody my mind
Keeps replaying.

You are the eyes behind the lens,
The beauty you forget to portray
In your photographs.

You are the smell of spring,
The air laden with
The perfume of all
the flowers in the world.

You are warm cups of tea
And feminist t-shirts
And hipster glasses
And old songs
And a million unread books.
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