"counterculture" poems
Why is it so cool to hate on a group
for their fashion sense?
Or that they like to be off the mainstream?
You are doing the same thing that
people were doing to the
grunge
goths
punks
hippies
beatniks
flappers
and they all did something with their counterculture.
Ever think that
ours is the hipsters?
Not really,
they've been around since *The *** Pistols*
actually
they started them.
They made it cool to go to a thrift store
and buy things out of comfort
then rip it up
change it so it looked brand new.
Punk
that made Hipsters.
But now they are just some fad
that people hate on.
Just because they like to talk about
indie bands
knowing them first
wearing band tee's of bands they listen too
wearing vintage and retro clothing
likes reading
being in a cafe
organic food
vegan.
Stereotyping a group is all people did.
Now I can't wear things or do things
because some *** hole is going
to say
**"Ha you're such a ******* hipster!"**
Why don't we stop hating people on what they wear
because how do you expect to get past
racism
homophobia
sexism
ableism
fatphobia
transphobia
prejudice
if we can't even get past how people dress?
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
I hate woodstock
I hate the whole
mainstream counterculture
why embrace something as alternative
when society itself is evolving to be just that?
I almost desire to be
the textbook,
cookie-cut
worker drone
family man
but I figure,
I'll push in a different direction
than anyone I know
most writers are
bullshitters
anyway
especially the best
ones--
I could imagine Sartre
before fans,
promising a world he couldn't provide
I think all writers
at their core,
are idealists
dreamers
when that ceases,
they can no longer write
or turn
to nonfiction
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 1:25 PM UTC
born underwater a ****** to the birth of creation
complacent verses bathing in lakes wasted her patience
ocean poems emotive prose the notions grow
breast strokes sowed in silly string civilized sovereignty
divinity’s reliance divided by Earth’s dire needs
fires breathe regardless of the rain she breeds
seeds beneath the sand hold no reason to lie in wake
so we speak in foreign tongues with dominance a mistake
to take her language for another world
visions died with imminence and grandiosity
a coliseum’s misconstruction catalyzed combustion’s coldest counterculture
living within the wind sinning stings it’s singularity
glaring stares impaired all sages of their clarity
careful conscious turned rotten swimming in the toxins
glossy water robs apostles of oxygen
filtered riddles fiddled this conviction’s symmetry
& now the god’s live in ignorance and misery
crimson skies abysmal cries they’re looking at the ground
astounded to the loud doubts that overpower clouds
powdered optometry devoured flowers of their solitude
another rotten petal for every sentiment left misunderstood
confused prisoners gifted with the write to think
proles sentenced to wonder why the caged bird sings
a paradox of broken thoughts to question it’s intentions
matter undermined the undefined enlightenment
spirals in the light comprise a present tense
evanescent destination sensei keep I humble
so many stripes up in my wavelengths
widowed endorphins scrape the pain away
balanced chemically an efficacy of electricity
many marvel but the master’s prophecy is destiny
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
As humans we have a constant desire for "doing"
We are consumed by the idea of constant movement
Constantly itching for reason
Wondering just why our blood pumps through our veins
What we are truly meant to be
is simply defined, it is "to be"
nothing further, look no more
Living is beautiful,
but life's become a chore.
A beautiful, wonderful, constant bore
I'm sorry but I don't like this ride anymore
It spins and flips and throws us around
I don't like it now, please let me down
I'd rather continue a minimal state
Trust the creation, believe in my fate
Go only where I can wonder and wander
Speak only truths as I question and ponder
Simple love with no instructions
Instead of my mind suffering from abduction
Don't get me wrong, we'd cry if there's sorrow
But nobody lives in hopes of tomorrow
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
"People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint - it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly... time-y wimey... stuff." -The Doctor in "Blink (2007)"
"Remember that time we.."
Her voice calls to me from tomorrow.
From yesterday. From a flat in England
in 1969, all **** carpets and counterculture.
All go-go boots and ginger hair.
"Can't wait till we.."
Her voice calls to me from today.
From nowhen. From the bed
a few blocks down the road.
All apologies and heretos
and whyfors.
"Spoilers.."
She says with a smile
that cracked on her face
yesterday and ends
somewhen.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 11:53 AM UTC
A script for birth - an new revival,
libelled breaks, swollen structure,
a cupboard full of accidentals,
daubs this paragon with stucco:
Glowsticks prance on leveled stair,
canvas origami pads Negeb:
Counterculture's been declared!
'Metropolis' left in riverbed.
A crypt where all is fairly loose;
—deepened, glottal, breathened, size—
Saddled with this torment, you!
—ugly glamour pangyrized—
There's a lot more to fashion,
and a lot more, to forge;
Nothing keeps me in *******
that would be too awkward.
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
with a body concealed in armor
and a heart filled with iron bars
let me in to see your light
the man had a past of thorns
yet a soul of gold
invite me in to reveal your sweeter side
with a mind set of a government spy
and the emotion of burdened soldier
smile to me wide and let your guard down
the man had the memories on the battlefield
yet no scars to prove his achievement
come sit close and tell me the tales of your life
with the courage of a fighter
and the actions of a member of the counterculture
lean in close and let your lips meet mine
the man who thought he had no heart to love
yet held the key for an eternal sanctuary
forget all your tales, and spare your future to adventure with me
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 9:28 PM UTC
Taking dinner from your litter
not a drifter seeking shelter
an organiser
sympathiser
Hero of the oppressed
the distressed
While millions wait in hunger
shipwrecked
poverty entrenched
capitalism unchecked
Does it make you wonder
if your contempt
for the dumpster diver
is justified?
Use the planet
for your plunder
it is a little ******
your appetiser
could quench the hunger
of a village over winter
Does it upset you to accept
your excuses
are inept?
The diver of the dumpster
is an enigma
a free thinker
challenging you
with counterculture
to wake from your slumber
reject
excess
redress
Food injustice
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 3:50 PM UTC
It is time for a cleansing
washaway this job
this car, wife and children
forsake these friend
forget the monotony of money
forget the constraints of time
forget forget forget
and baptise yourself in the "sins" of the counterculture
Jul 26, 2010
Jul 26, 2010 at 1:22 PM UTC
You have your demagogic president-elect,
Dreaming in shades of Mussolini
And will sit in his downtown skyscraper and laugh that all the populists
Were not in on the joke,
And thus could not be in on the punchline.
The progressives hotboxed the shower the night we handed the country to Trump.
Pennsylvania, the center of the cataclysm.
The vortex has opened and engulfed all the steel,
All of the illegal immigrants have been scooped up and swallowed,
Reproductive rights will be voided in a stacked Supreme Court validating the opinions of white male legislators.
Tensions twisting to contort and ignore the onset realization
That all progress is halted to return the country to the era of segregation,
Deportation Gestapo formed with the lone intent to displace the children of those who dared to dream of a brighter life.
America, look what you've done and face yourself with your objections.
Look dead in your eyes and see all the minorities, tears in the diaries of closeted teenagers,
And the judicial dread of the gentleman who only wants to live comfortably with his husband.
You've made stepping stones of the counterculture, all crying in dorm rooms or next to their gardens,
All together in sorrow.
Underground America has been sold out,
We're a social experiment for what can happen when sulfuric acid is poured upon the voiceless.
The silent majority has shut us up.
We've been yelling to change history and now are tracking back.
Bigotry is back in style and I'm terrified.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 12:22 PM UTC
Give me the obscene
Not the clean
But the filthy ****
The pink ****
The thrusting ****
If that’s what you want
Then that’s what I got
Give me the obscene
Let me clear the scene
Of what we have seen
What you call unclean
Cause in the past
The obscene was the underclass
The undercurrent
Miscegeny, rock music
Civil liberties for minorities
Hippies and other counterculture
Freedom and treasonous language
Give me your obscene
Cause that’s where the future lies
Not were perverts spy
On ***** secrets
But where the freedom of language
Leads us closer to being
Better human beings
So I’ll take the obscene
Instead of the mind numbing
Thought controlling clean
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
Hello Poetry is our bohemian site
For the new counterculture
Of the contemporary beat.
The works are here.
Ginsberg's long gone.
Kerouac took to the road
Not taken yet by us.
This is our Greenwich Village,
And I can stay at home.
Now, and some years ahead,
I'll say I met and read
The likes of you,
Here,
On Hello Greenwich.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
I didn't have the guts to be a rebel
All the counterculture called at me
Asking me to join
In living rooms with Goodwill couches
Owned by a friend of a friend of a friend
They reached out to me
Hands and hearts so open that they couldn't stop bleeding
Asking me to join them
To make what I felt
To do what I wanted
Regardless of whatever the rules said.
They asked me,
Passing the tokens of a shared insobriety
That sought out the essential truth beneath
A thousand and one layers of culture and biology and social pressure
That only ever manages to turn diamonds into coal
I don't have the testicular fortitude to forsake the gifts of my birthright
My middle-class hope
Of a sliver of land beholden to an HOA
Of a wife who loves me kind of and children that will hold me to an anachronistic social standard that will leave me wanting
But it could be mine
It could be a world of my own making
With love and joy and plenty
And the mediocrity and turmoil
That is essential to life whether it is good or bad
It could be mine
The true face of the world is violent
And life struggles unconditionally to enact it's will on a world
That has extinguished more species than are alive
We are mayflies in the cosmos waxing and waning
And no one cares
And no one guarantees that I will eat tomorrow
Let alone find love
Or persist in the presence of my ancestors.
I don't have the ***** to wager my little bits of happiness
Even if there is a slim chance to change a million minds or more
Call me a coward
Call me a pragmatist
In a century call me dead
Right now you can call me mostly happy
And I don't know if there is anything better
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
We experience xenogenesis
A horse births a Pegasus
Metamorphosis
Of a horse in mist
It starts to get ******
Adding its colt to its list
Of things it won't miss
Pick a side
To abide
Be a bride
Of the tide
Of our pride
That divides
Listen to me
Glisteningly
Christening thee
As all I can see
So strangers flee
Ending my need
To follow their lead
Roundtable
Clowns label
A painful angle
Of Cain and Abel
By cutting cables
Becoming stable
By turning tables
On their fellow man
Making a bellow band
Of the yellow brand
For this well of sand
Has the smell of demand
Creating the hell at hand
It's a figment
Or a signet
Of a big net
A pig let
On a rigged bet
For a jig jet
Band of brothers
Versus others
Killing colors
Paint by numbers
Tainted slumber
Heart of lumber
That they sunder
Then they wonder
Why we're under
All of their vision
Is in a jingoism
Single prism
Decision
Of derision
No precision
To their incisions
The faithful fractions
Of fateful factions
Don't face their actions
But race to reaction
At the pace of passion
To their racist bastion
Darkened tracks
Harken back
To white and black
Skies of flak
From the attacks
Of baritone blaster
Carrion caster
Natural disasters
Killing our pastors
Becoming our masters
So we'd die faster
Counterculture vultures
And contrarian poachers
Convince the loafers
They'll be heard
If they say the right word
Diamonds assured
In a deal absurd
They promise ailment mending
But it's a clever sale sending
A fairytale ending
Of only people we love
And God up above
Nodding in approval
Of the other's removal
So the problem's renewal
Is an unbreakable jewel
These xenophobic aerobics
Corroded and loaded
Us into a low den
Where we're so dead
We can't use our own head
So we make our own bed
And we make it with dread
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 7:31 PM UTC
Our hot girl summer rolls on - like lava downhill or male models doing - anything.
We’re in Athens, Georgia, yes, it’s hotter elsewhere - but you can die in the sun - is this really a competition?
Fashionistas and trendsetters are adorning themselves in fluorescent lime green this summer. Making it the must-have statement color for the cool kid's club. The whole aesthetic was inspired by Charli XCX’s lime-green album cover for ‘Brat.’
Now, before you roll your eyes at the state of America, where silly people are bilked by influencers - isn't that what happened in the 60s with ‘flower-power?’ Wasn’t that ‘counterculture’ flagging, where everything from school buses to bikinis were flower adorned, driven by bands like the Beatles and umm.. [fill in the blank]?
So, we tripped (sounded psychedelic) to the mall of Georgia, to shop for unnecessary, lime-green things. Nail polish (which I think eats), beach bags, coverups, Crocs, friendship bracelets (cause we’re 13-year-olds), Cinnabon's - which aren’t technically green but are delicious and the Apple store - because it makes us happy.
I’ve read, or heard it said that “malls are dying.” Not this one, on a weekday mid-morning it was packed. The line for the eighteen-movie-plex looked like Spring Festival (Chinese New Years) at the Beijing airport.
Sadly, it’s time to admit that as 20-year-olds we’ve aged out of the “Clare’s” esthetic. A 12-year-old in line to get her ears pierced, looked at me, while I was looking at friendship bracelets, like I was her grandmother and I felt it - it was real.
.
.
Two songs to go with this:
This Girl's In Love (Live At HMH) by Trijntje Oosterhuis
Riviera Life by Caro Emerald
Jul 12, 2024
Jul 12, 2024 at 1:38 PM UTC
He never asks to come, and he never wants to leave. And he's really no guest at all.
What he wants is to burrow into your brain, like a bad virus. He'd be very content to short circuit your hardware in your head. His ultimate desire, though, is your complete destruction.
There're many names for him: The Prince of Darkness, Father of Lies, Satan, Lucifer and the Devil are a few titles. He is the enemy of our souls, slick and cunning, deceitful and alluring. He's no more than a thief and a killer, certainly not your impish pal in a red suit with a pitchfork.
He'd love it if you never believed in him at all, just as equally as he'd love you to be obsessed with him, finding his dark, sadistic image to be cool and a counterculture phenomenon.
I've been a target of his schemes because I believe in God and in the sacrifice of Jesus on the cross for our salvation. Being targeted goes for anybody that gets on his case. Too many people believe his lies, believe that they are of no real value or that God is either nonexistent or not good.
So to my unwelcome house guest... you cannot have my soul. I am a child of God. Therefore, God has the final say, and He says that I am valuable, and that I am here for His good purposes.
Apr 28, 2023
Apr 28, 2023 at 4:19 PM UTC
the truest tragedy
of all poetry
is the fallacy
that every line you write
must be saddening.
irony is the counterculture of poetry.
i write death
to the community
and without a breath
the work is granted validity.
i write life
to the people
and without strife
my work is deemed feeble.
a poem is not a feeling
it's a moment.
there is no emotion
there is no reeling
it's not hopeless
it's not devotion
it's not healing.
your poem is now.
Nov 12, 2024
Nov 12, 2024 at 5:08 PM UTC
Through those elected
deceptive meets collective
tearing down monuments erected
to deny dominance projected
but the counterculture
hounds and vultures
shroud the souls hurt
with shouts of sulfur.
The goblin fray
waddling parade
ballista barricade
sends us on the path of the dodo
dipping cheese in the snow cone
as we freeze for our photo
of an apocalypse in slow-mo.
We break by blade
so we brake by day
they break like they're paid
to brake in the way
which adds thirty minutes to my drive
because two cars collide
on the median's other side.
Battling babble
rattling rattles
adding addles
to paddling paddles
fighting against the current
of the unobservant
dumb obscurants.
They only want to confabulate
to **********
the master state
and master race
obfuscating the rhetoric
using anger to redden it
once you get ahead of it
they ask you to take a sedative.
I'd like to live in a grassy township
instead of this trash heap brown ****
but I'm massively bounded
to the ones who found it
from the other side of the bath
they brought their wrath
to set our path.
The blasted puppeteers
laughed for ******* years
now collapse in sudden tears
projecting their own worst fears
on their imperiled peers
who are scared to steer
near the flying spears.
They want to annex the city
of the loving and living
for their own selfish bidding
using obstruction for corruption
like injunctions against inductions
for interruption dysfunction
at our most pivotal junction.
Assaulting offense
halting progress
absolving nonsense
as purely God sent
is fought with reason and logic
so we bring them their audit
but they use thick ink to blot it.
We found the virus
but we can't cure it
until we've silenced
the obscurants.
Mar 11, 2021
Mar 11, 2021 at 6:49 AM UTC
A glutton for devotion,
is what I would say of myself.
Reserved only for singular reverence.
Chainlink fence around portrait perimeter.
Love lies lusciously
where the marvelous maple
lets leaves lay in the autumn.
Core, contained in a thick cluster of
counterculture conscience.
Averse to all wealth, save
the cornucopia held
within my sternum.
Jul 30, 2025
Jul 30, 2025 at 10:45 AM UTC