"hippest" poems
Trophies for last place,
And a Holiday for every weekend.
A taste of this and that...
OF Italy and Ireland and Asia and Germany
and every township in the county,
and 3 collective Miles of
Portable Toilets,
Strategically Positioned
throughout each event.
cause there is going to be a Lot of ****
Hooray for whatever we are celebrating this weekend.
Whichever one of the 30 different Woodstocks
Or week long Music Festivals
That exist only so
the Hippest of Hipsters
can congratulate each other
on how Indie they are.
Ya know, it's happy hour somewhere...
Why not party
All Day, Everyday?
Devalue the weekend
Like we have thanksgiving
And New Years.
A Five Kay For the Common Cold,
And We'll even give trophies for last place.
Cause we're all winners here.
and we're all hungry.
And What represents your heritage better than
Pizza or sauerkraut or General Tso's
And endless flowing barrels of refreshing, Ice cold, Domestically brewed and Nationally brand recognized Alcoholic Beverages?
IT's The Great Dumb Down, Charlie Brown!!!
A symptom of the Universe
If there ever was one.
Mass anesthesia to keep us all content
With our collective mediocrities,
our Forfeit Potential,
Our Day Job that doesn't pay very well,
But kind has benefits.
So we stay on.
In fear of nothing better.
It makes feel important.
Like Wheel of Fortune makes us feel smart.
(Wow, you can spell?!)...
Dwindling returns in a world of Beige and Pastels
And the Muted Grays of limestone concrete.
We Accept less and we Get less and we accept less and we Get less
And On And on and on,
till we hit that lowest common cultural denominator,
where your race is what food you eat,
And we all qualify for the special Olympics.
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
The music's best on the dark
side of town, I heard. It seemed miles
from home, after waiting in a long traffic jam
But the lights finally changed
from glamorous shining to dull neon, covered in smoke
drifting up from drifters outside the Black Cat.
By the fluorescent green sign, a cat
was painted, its fur dark
as the alley I stood in, engulfed in smoke.
The cat perched atop Miles
Davis's trumpet. Bums hassled me for change
and a few drummed on buckets, jamming
with a harmonica player, synched as jam
and peanut butter. I stepped into the Black Cat,
and from the facade saw no change.
The lights turned low, the club dark
as the alley outside. A Miles
record hovered through the smoke.
The people chattered like bees, smoking,
waiting for the players to jam.
At last, the bass player laid down a line miles
long, the drummer chinked in, and the cats
began to groove. They chilled my bones with dark
melodies, pounding through spooky chord changes.
Soon sunbeams shone through the storm, they changed
to an upbeat swing tune. The horn smoked,
hitting riffs unheard, astounding the dark
faces gazing on in awe. They jammed
endless as the ocean. The cats
started to play a popular Miles
song. The crowd hollered in Miles'
memory as the horn steered through the changes
with the skill of the legend of the Black Cat.
The band, nearly invisible through the haze of smoke
thick in the air, strawberry jam,
soon faded to dark.
Miles Davis’s ghost flowed through the smoke,
awakened by the chord changes, grooving to the jam.
The hippest cat alive or dead, now he plays in the dark.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
He was king of disco back then
When they thought it would never end
But I’m afraid it did my friend
And this was the message that got sent
Something like a distant cousin
Disco ***** all of a sudden
When dance music had ‘em buzzin
Hip or cool it just wasn’t
Disco *****
Was what they said
It got classified
Among the dead
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
That’s what happens
When things go bust
What it spelled was
Gloom and doom
He was no longer
The hippest person in the room
Chic stopped being au curant
He couldn’t get seated in a restaurant
Like he used to at l’enfant
He was no longer everyone’s confidant
Disco *****
Was what they said
It got classified
Among the dead
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
That’s what happens
When things go bust
Yesterday it was all the rage
When suddenly they turned
Another page
Call it dance music
Or new age
The monkey just broke
Out of his cage
Disco *****
Was what they said
It got classified
Among the dead
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
That’s what happens
When things go bust
He was king of disco back then
When they thought it would never end
But I’m afraid it did my friend
And this was the message that got sent
Something like a distant cousin
Disco ***** all of a sudden
When dance music had ‘em buzzin
Hip or cool it just wasn’t
011316cm
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 9:41 AM UTC
By: David W. Clare
Hollywood town has seen all kind of characters from infamous to bums!
The hippest of all, exclusive dive bar that's been there forever; will outlast us all...
Not your typical cowboy-trough or rag-joint hole-in-the-wall...
No dancing allowed as silent drifters, hipsters and ****** **** on olives then ask for more...
Dress-code strictly enforced; some meet there to get married, while others get divorced...
You'll be sure to meet up with Humphrey Bogart and Cecil B. Demille, young **** chicks and a fat-director over the hill...
Be sure and tell the bartender you'll be back, he will surely remember your tie, coat and hat...
Welcome to the Frolic Room...
(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
The coolest,
hippest thing about being
a poet
a writer
an orator
is the ability to invent
words
give them meaning
where no meaning previously
e x i s t e d
give a new word a definition
defined, wrote, spoke
Use them in
verses
sentences
speech
nouns
pronoun
adjective
verb
adverb
and
on
and
on
and
on
the flumbertwimbla (not to be confused with a flumbertwumbla...) was as quick witted and razhnaha as a beginkogojobalu but had none of the charm nor characteristics of the humbajuno. What it lacked in chuggakoocahoo it made up for with it's own take on ickshelllatah. True story.
Oct 2, 2011
Oct 2, 2011 at 10:28 AM UTC
in the mindset
of an ole ***** spiritual
plantation style
when the long hot days
could only be battled
by singing what would one day
be called the blues
travel with me, all ya’ll
to a humid crop
circa 1837
with the hippest pickers
in all the region….
a little taste:
the foreman, a blue black
towering figure
bag slung
sweat dripping
starts quiet and low
but soon all join in:
masssa gonna whip up good
***** gonna whip us bad
***** gonna whip us smiling
***** gonna whip us sad
***** loves he whip*
***** gonna whip us eatin
masssa gonna whip us starved
masssa gonna whip us easy
masssa gonna whip us hard
***** loves he whip*
-----The field seems to move in unison now
as each member of the crew
feel the rhythm and sing along in time -----
***** gonna whip my woman
***** gonna whip my chile
***** gonna get a splinter
wont whip me for a while
***** loves he whip*
masssa gonnna whip my skin raw
***** gonna turn me red
masssa gonna whip me so hard
make me wish that I was dead
***** love he whip*
----The sun is setting now on the plantation
but the song carries late into the eve
as we travel forward in time we hear the faint echoes
from a troubled past ------
***** gonnna whip my po back
***** gonna whip my legs
***** gonna whip my momma
make me scream and make me beg
***** loves he whip*
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
My very favorite philosophers include...
Mark Twain
the very hippest aphorism I have ever learned from him is this one...
"The hardest trip you will ever take in your entire life is trying to get someone to meet you halfway!"
Mark Twain
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:32 PM UTC
Your house water is still in my cup
.
Singing songs you didn't know you knew the words to
.
Prom
.
Something about this isn't right
.
I am plagued by constant fear and stress
.
Retreat
.
Check up
.
Resolution
.
Drummer boy
.
Adoption
.
I saw a scared little girl in the mirror and couldn't look away
.
Graduation
.
White roses and flexibility
.
"The hippest place to be is under a rock"
.
Changes in strength
.
Why does it mean so much when you say it, but so little when others do?
.
I love the smell of simple hand soap
.
Grip
.
Achievement vs accomplishment
.
"The kind of morning that lasts all afternoon"
.
Not here, not now...someday, somehow
.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 11:51 PM UTC
i'm a southern boy
with a southern mind
southern lips
southern eyes
i'm a southern man
he who buys
southern hips
with southern lies
down south heat
baked bone lives
downtown crooks
with softer knives
the hippest kids
some Memphis folk
hot fried eggs
bowls and tokes
on down yonder
up o'er dere
cast-iron fingers
rusted hair
it rocks my pocket
and shakes my knee
t'see cat on the corner
and a dog in the street
but that's hard cash
and a filthy life
here in *****
here in strife
twangy me
twangy wimp
simple *******
you're a lil' limp
lame in the legs
fast in mind
lazy *******
you'll get left behind
you're no devil
but you're no saint
quit making silly songs
**** too late
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 9:15 AM UTC
on the street where this summer's hippest martyrs rot away
the sidewalks question their sexualities as the sun burns them into
flat . s l i c e s . on phonescreens
//words are my pocketknife in your hand-like a fool trying too hard at someone else's party.
[] as you slide across the polyurethane
holding brand-new hostages at your waist_ trimming them down to swimsuit-season size
and style.
the air quakes though the [youth like bent corners, ruining photos in ] old magazines .
shivering at the lakeside in full attire
i tank
,having enough of it.
we are seizing_
a
day
other than this
//
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC