Her face, flawless and filtered, flows over
my chest, ribs, stomach, hips, fitting the curved
mounds of my body, and even within simplicity
of thread and dye, I sense her presence as her face
hangs from my frame, a statement louder than pillow-lips,
Nancy Sinatra-hair and a glamorous 60’s ***** face.

When paired with leggings and an artfully-distressed denim jacket,
I become a member of the “freshman generation of degenerate
beauty queens,” a hipster fallen to the circumstance of youth,
but I wear her face and the romance of it all reminds me:
we are not defined as Lolitas lost in the hood, or distant,
airy voices in a sea of crude jokes and half-baked skits

meant to highlight shortcomings of a person who doesn’t give
two *****. Lana fits me better than my ribbed, red
sweater and even amidst gods and monsters,
this T-shirt makes pretty last, and I am just as cool.

My mouth still lingers with the flavor of cigarettes
and all I can taste is you.

My hair still is brisk and musky like the woods
and all I can smell is you.

My eyes still burn from the cold on that late winter day
and all I can see is you.

My skin still itches from the wool scarf you gave to me
and all I can feel is you.

My ears still ring from the song you wrote
and all I can hear is you.

My mind still sits in awe of the way you are
and all I can think about is you.

Escape from Planet Hipster
They're nostalgic for a time
When wearing the peace sign
was a revolutionary act;
Now propaganda of the deed
is free shows on ghetto borders
Craft IPAs, grandpa's clothing,
and dismissal above all.

"i don't wanna have to be the one to tell you this,
but you're no foodie; you're just a fat-***
who's too cowardly to take an honest look at yourself.

It's okay to be whatever you want,
just don't lie to yourself proclaiming to be a foodie
to justify late-night trips to Jack in the Box four days a week,
or eating a whole jar of Tostitos 'Salsa con Queso' every two days.

Are you trying to mummify yourself with all those preservatives?

Y'know,
just because you blow most of your paychecks
on gasoline, **** food and overpriced coffee
pulled to the most pretentious of standards
doesn't at all begin to mean that you've got any class, taste, or style,
let alone that you're a foodie.

At least recycle all the paper products your pseudofood comes in.

Moreover, your thighs aren't ******* gluten,
they're all that other junk you eat habitually
while watching your oh-so-edified selection of films
before sleeping it off until 3 in the afternoon.

No wonder you're so full of ****:
you are what you eat, I suppose.

Pull your head on out your ***.

All that fat and cholesterol isn't for the faint of heart."

I have an occasional distaste,
more of a disgust if you will.
I don't know how this hate
developed.
One day I began seeing humans
as animals, cows, etc.
I'm not a vegetarian,
petty individuals,
following 'trends'
' Is my China fringe high enough?'
' Is my manbun tight enough?'
Both sides reek of stupidity.

Its awful hard to be intellectual when you all look the same,
All you city dwellers, urban outfitters is to blame.
I often sit about, and question humanity,
while I'm comfortable with some of it,
a lot of it makes me laugh,  and soon hopefully will be the end of it

1am on a Monday.
With futurama on my TV.
But I'm paying that no attention.
Cos My mind is on something else, racing, at light speed. And
Sorrows ode is on repeat.
Meanwhile, he's unaware of what he's doing to me.
Simple complexity.
Tasteless love, bittersweet.
You're so shallow,
But you always cut me so deep.
I think now, I should go to sleep.
Hopefully, you don't haunt my dreams.

Dark skies.
Possibly rain.
Only one thing on my mind remains.
This view
This life
Me...
How long before it gets old?
Till it grows mold?
Birds chirping.
I see no sun.
Only a book.
Not filled with words of wisdom
Or lyrics of poetry,
But an itinerary.
A schedule to follow.
A routine.
That's what how I live life.
How morbidly boring.

They talk and bend,
They draw and write,
Harder and faster,
With ever clean hands,
Which might sometimes stoop to dirt,
Only to be disinfected after,
They peer down the microscope,
And examine the cells,
Each year the pictures are better,
But their eyes are darker,
They work,
To add that extra diamond,
And slave,
To remove that spot of rust,
But all their work,
Is like adding more water,
To a swimming pool of iron,
And their houses increase in space,
And their wives are wrapped in lace,
And their lives go to waste,
As they increase the yield,
They decrease the life,
And all that grow are empty supermodels,
Row by row,
Strong back, strong head,
Sword against the bugs,
And man falls with them,
Forgetting he is made,
Like the bugs himself,
Work,
Not to make the fields full,
But the heart,
Then the rust won’t matter,
And if pictures of cells are hazy,
Your eyes will be clear to understand