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TheBlackBird Mar 2013
I can see you there

standing in your studio relishing

in the faces of your followers

creaming their jeans over your creations

lightbulbs hanging from the cealing by telephone cords

and photographs of babies dressed as dictators

trying to prove that innocence still exists

when we both know that this world

was robbed of its innocence a million years ago

you might fool some people but I can see right through you

professional hipster, wearing tie dye underneath your skin

and an overpriced suit on the outside

painting your lips with designer brand

translucent rasberry lipstick

and kissing your acquaintances

a kiss for each cheek

I want to know how you can fake it so well

hiding behind your little purple door

counting money while I’m busy counting lies

was it easy to push your dreams so far away

so deep in the back of your mind that they may as well be in your shoes

did you ever think you’d be here

that you’d sell your soul to the devil

because I’m afraid that you might be my future

and I would rather stand at the end of the dock with Mr.Gatsby

gazing at the green light across the river

holding on to hope forever
Mark Toney Dec 2019
Whoa, man!
7/14/2018 - Poetry form: Footle - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 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
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?
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

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 crack

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
no hints

you compliment
and complement
their interests
and yet you never

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

so are you gay
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

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

so before you sip
your corporate

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 gay
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.
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