I could see my reflection in his 80’s cop glasses,
his beard artfully unkempt, spilling over his fannel shirt.
The light of the Lord glinted off the chrome of his BMX bike.
He said ‘Heaven is no longer where it’s at. It went out with Michael Landon.
You’re going to Hipster Hell.”
And we travelled to dive bar off a side street of a city you’ve never heard of, just being gentrified
Where the only light came from the Schlitz neon signs and the oh-so-retro pinball machines
And he said “Welcome to Hipster Hell,
You may already be in it.
Welcome to Hipster Hell,
it’ll be gone in a minute.”
In Hipster Hell, all the jeans are acid washed
worn low like gunslingers belts, revealing ironic ass crack
lighting up the night.
And every girl’s a burlesque dancer in Hipster Hell,
but no one gets their tits out.
And every guy plays a ukelele in Hipster Hell
And it sounds like the end of an era.
I ate five cupcakes in Hipster Hell,
because the fat lady with pink hair and a dragon tattoo doesn’t serve them in even numbers,
and I watched the beards grow on men with short shorts
and played some kickball, but not well,
and drank cheap, non-commerical beer.
We watched 3-D movies, without the glasses,
and then said how much better they were.
Everybody applauded when I said something,
and then moved on as though nothing had happened.
Cause in Hipster Hell, it never does.
My iPhone fell in the toilet and broke
now I can’t use the ‘A’ key. That just makes it cooler.
In Hipster Hell, every band has a keyboard
Every keyboard has a sticker
and every sticker’s artfully torn.
We ogled graffiti in Hipster Hell,
Is that a Banksy? Quite probably.
Everything means something to someone in Hipster Hell.
I went to a hand-craft fair and bought a tea towel,
a hipster tea towel, that said ‘Tea’, so you know what it’s for.
In Hipster Hell, I saw a play,
it was political, and not very good,
but then everyone said how good it was,
so I changed my mind.
Everyone’s a spoken word poet in Hipster Hell
and they’re trying something new tonight
that you’ve never heard of,
it’s about third-world countries
and how the man is keeping us down
And no one does drugs in Hipster Hell,
Cause it’s cooler not to.
And the party doesn’t stop
And the glasses never come off
And the artfully tied Afghan scarves choke the men with the pointy shoes
Whose hair looks like a chickens
And everybody sounds like they’ve smoked to much
And everybody sounds like their from the East End
And everybody tries so hard to be perfectly unkempt
In Hipster Hell.
They had a barbeque, but the Quorn didn’t hold up
Bits of it slipped through the grill
And caught fire.
They had a Halloween party
Where everyone came as their favorite childhood TV show
That they’d never seen.
Look, there’s Wonder Woman
Look, there’s Sailor Moon
It was crazy, man, crazy, there in Hipster Hell.
Anime, Japanime, Hip-hop fusion urban fun,
twenty-four seven, direct to your doorstep
In Hipster Hell they don’t speak, except through Facebook,
except the cool ones, who are back on MySpace.
Shit just got real, yo, in Hipster Hell.
The irony became a part of me and I played my ukelele and sang my song,
dropped some rhymes, did ironic lines,
Till the time came when I couldn’t take it anymore.
And I said ‘St. Peter, take me somewhere earnest.’
And he said ‘You had it, but you lost it. It’s the price you paid for entry.
And every headband wearing afroed boy here’s a sentry,
And you’re never going back again.’
So i had another cupcake and ennui, and stared, confounded,
at the death of me.
Don’t forget to order your own custom made poem from Poetry to Go!