Category Archives: Poemetry

F*ck You, I’m from Kansas, now in 3-D

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Hipster Hell

On the day I died, St. Peter stood before me

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.


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This is Ikea

This is Ikea.


This is Ikea.  We’re calling to let you know that your couch is ready to be delivered.  We cannot tell you when for sure, but it will definitely be at some point in the next three days around 2p.m.-5p.m., give or take a few hours.

This is Ikea.  We’re sorry, but your couch is not yet ready to be delivered yet.  Ignore that message you heard yesterday.  Somebody was wrong, however, we are not to blame.  You should have your couch at some point in the next three weeks.  We’ll call again.  We promise.

This is Ikea.  There have been further delays with the processing of your couch.  Before you get assy, WE DON’T CONTROL VOLCAONOS.  Right?

This is Ikea.  We take it because you haven’t called, you still want your original couch.  It’s going to be a while, okay?  In the meantime, you might try purchasing a chair, or futon, or sitting on the coffee table, or maybe cross-legged on the floor.  We hear that can be nice.

This is Ikea.  We don’t really understand why you’re still holding out for your couch.  We’ve sent a man over during the weekend you said you were away, and it doesn’t even match your living room.  Retro-country cottage chique completely clashes with our sleek Swedish design motif.  You’re a fucking moron.  But by all means, keep waiting.

This is Ikea.  Look, we’re sorry about calling you a moron.  Give us a call.  Let’s talk about your couch.

This is Ikea.  Are you sitting down?  Of course not, you don’t have a couch.  Check this out—remember the couch you ordered from us last year?  They finally found a guy who’s willing to make it.  He said he would have done it before, but it’s a piece of shit.  We did have to pay him some more.  Your balance will be amended.

This is Ikea.  Goddamn it, call me back.  I can’t live with this silence on your end.  It’s like you’re not even there.  I don’t even want you to pay for the couch.  Just take it.  Fucking take it like you took everything else.

This is Ikea.  I’m worried about you.  I saw the burns on your old couch when I was going through your dumpster.  Are you on drugs again? Please call.  If not our customer service center, at least the Samiritans.  You need help.

This is Ikea.  Was that a fucking Argos van outside your house yesterday?  You need to call.

This is Ikea.  I’m calling from a mobile phone outside your house with a can of gasoline and a brand new disposable lighter.  You need to call now.

This is Ikea.  BOOM!

This is Ikea.  We hear you may be in the market for some furntiture for your new house.  Please contact our customer service center for a 20%-off customer loyalty coupon.  Have a nice day.


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Excerpts from Super Mario’s Twitter Feed

Hello Everybody!  It’s-ah me, Mario!!  I just-ah got a new IPhone! Tweet tweet.–about an hour ago from Twitterific

Oh-ah-no!  Someone has-ah stolen the Princess.  As a plumber, I feel fully qualified to rescue her! –50 minutes ago

Hey Look-ah, I’mma breaking the bricks.  With-ah my head!  —42 minutes ago

Gold-ah coins!  Woo-hoo! —From Twitterific

You ever get the feeling you’re-ah looking at the same three clouds, scrolling back and forth, over and over and over again?  –40 minutes ago

The princess is in another castle!  Oh-ah-no! –37 minutes ago

Oooo!  I ate-ah the mushroom, and now I’m a bigger! —About 35 minutes ago

Ooooh I touched a turtle, and now I’mma smaller! —About 34 minutes ago

When I jump-ah onto the flagpole, fireworks shoot up, like they’re coming out of my ass!  #fireworksoutofmyass.

A plumber and a princess, just thank-ah of the sex!  —About 20 minutes ago

Ouch, I’mma dead! From Twitterific

@mario  Suck it. Love, Bowser from the web

The Princess is in another castle!  Jesus Christ!!

I have acquired the tail of a racoon, which allows me to fly!  Woo hoo!  Maybe I should lay off the Mushrooms. –from Twitterific

Don’t-ah look now, but the turtles have grown wings.  WTF?? LOL?!? –from the web

Oh-ah Look, it’s my brother Luigi!  Just-a in time!

@Luigi You fuck.  That was supposed to be my firey balls flower!

#Haiti  — Please-ah donate to the poor people of Haiti.  I would-ah, but I’m being chased by a giant bullet with wings.  Oh-ah-no!

The Princess is in another castle.  Fucking-ah bitch.

#FF @Princess, @Yoshi, @Donkey Kong, @Little Toadstool Guy

Game Over?  This is my life we’re talking about!!  Continue!! Continue!!! –About 10 minutes ago

@Player  That’s better. —About 9 minutes ago

Sick of fucking gold coins now.  —About 8 minutes ago

Going down a sewer to a water world.  Not sure my IPhone will get reception here. –About 8 minutes ago

Woop woop woop woop –7 minutes ago from Twitterific

Yup.  Iphones are for assholes!  —5 minutes ago from web

Taken star-shaped pills that made me feel invincible? #Ivedonethat2 –4 minutes ago

@Princess Where R U? –3 minutes ago

@mario  I’m in another castle –2 minutes ago

@Princess Whore.  –1 minute ago

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Day 3

Today is like a cigarette,

Warm and nice, with fluffy clouds like little puffs of cigarette smoke.

The birds chirp like cigarettes, only they’re not on fire.

You call me upstairs, like a cigarette, to show me some work you’ve done–

sadly it’s work that doesn’t cause cancer or increase my metabolism, but jewellery to put on ladies.  I don’t respond correctly,

You yell at me for that, but

Like a cigarette, I’m unimpressed, my filter sucking out the most harmful of your words,

the rest tar and nicotine exhaled slowly.  I return downstairs, to see

The pack of cigarettes, which are like cigarettes, with four cigarettes still left,

I look at them and wonder if there’s any Free Will,

They stare at me disapprovingly like middle-aged English women at the pub, the kind who smoke cigarettes,

and exhale disappointment and dispair.

My patch on, but not a patch on them,  I slink away; a crumpled ten-pack, something halfway between

an addict and a stalling tactic.

It will take thousands of years for my cigarettes to decompose, but I’m losing my composure by the minute.

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Special Guest Poet John Osborne

I’m still trying to quit smoking and can’t think and nothing seems inspiring–so here’s some special guest poetry from John Osborne.  He’s funny, and English, and writes funny English people poems.  This one’s about the stifling predictability of middle class life and rampant domestic terrorism.  You can read more of his sweet-ass poetry, or buy one of his many books here.  Do it soon, because he’s pretty much too famous to talk to you now, and that’s only going to get worse.

p.s.  At first I thought this was a poem about men wearing Turkish pastries.  But that’s Baklavas.  There’s a difference.  Anyway, fucking read it.  It’s a good fucking poem.

What if men burst in wearing balaclavas?

by John Osborne

You shout crossword clues
while I iron work shirts.
and and there’s a stack of DVDs we ordered on Amazon
we still haven’t watched.
and Stuart Maconie is on the radio,

you like him
and we’ve skyplus’d The Apprentice
and it’s only two weeks until we go to New York
and the chicken is nearly roasted
and our friends will be here soon
and we’ve a case of red wine to get through

and a massive Toblerone
and Stuart Maconie has just played Whippin’ Picadilly
and if it’s still sunny at eight o’clock
we can drink gin and tonic in the garden
and tell everyone that Katie called this morning
to say she’s getting married in September

but as I sit waiting for our guests to arrive
I can’t help but look at the patio doors,
I imagine an elbow through the glass,
a man holding a gun in your mouth
as I am told to fill a bag with valuables.

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Living Will for an aging Lawrence Hipster

People of Lawrence:

1.  When I die, I am to be buried in my leather jacket and Chuck Taylor converse all-stars, with my PAW albums and my Mac.  Please do not remove any of my piercings. This is vital.  Instruct the mortician not to trim my nails, as their continual growth after my death will be an awesome reminder to everyone who comes to my funeral of their own mortality.  You may apply make-up, but not lipstick.

2. The funeral must be light-hearted, full of life, and above all IRONIC. The funeral should begin approximately forty minutes after the close of the Replay.  I should still have an open 12-pack of PBR in my fridge which may be distributed to the guests.  Guests should arrive late, be on something, and complain about how the funeral scene in Lawrence was much cooler in the 90’s.  At least one guest should be encouraged to piss on the Hearse, and another to vomit somewhere out of the way in the home so that it stays there, unfound, for quite some time.

3. The music during my funeral will be a continual loop of Freebird, which gets louder and louder with each playing.  This, again, is ironic.  Anyone taking it seriously should be asked to leave  and attend a second, more sombre, service at the Mustard Seed Christian Fellowship.  That service will be for someone else.

4. I’d like to start with a closed casket, which opens in time to the music about halfway through the funeral, with a smoke machine and lazer light system inside.  This is less ironic, and more awesome.

5. As I will be cremated, please encourage guests to throw their empty cans, fast food boxes, and weekly recycling in the casket with me.  There’s no reason I can’t help the environment, even after my death.  Organic waste from the funeral should be composted in the backyard.  Please DO NOT let the landlord see you doing this.  I will need the security deposit to pay back my folks.

6. After the funeral, the wake should be held at the Pig, where the sadness of my friends will be countered by an inappropriate gallery display centering around MS Paint drawings of vaginas saying funny things.  There could be cartoon bubbles where they speak.  The vaginas should say nothing about my passing.  Their presence alone will speak volumes.  There should be more vomiting.

7.  I would like my ashes ground into the floor of the following establishments–

*The Bourgeois Pig (Natch)

*Eighth Street Taproom (Good Times.)

*The Piano Bar (IRONICALLY)

*Liberty Hall (Where I worked)

*Pizza Shuttle (Where I worked)

*On the ‘T’ (So at least someone is riding it)

*Borders (Where I worked)

*Fatso’s (Again, IRONICALLY)

*The Set of 1-on-1 Trivia (still IRONICALLY)

*Bagel & Bagel (Where I worked)

*Allen Press (Where I worked)

*And Harbor Lights (if they’ll allow it, as I may still be banned)

8.  In lieu of a set mourning period, I would like all of my friends to be slightly disconcerted for approximately two weeks or until their next payday.  At least one should leave an after-party early (before 3a.m.) feeling “down” about my passing.  Two other friends may recite the following dialogue (while drinking)

A: Hated to see him go.

B: It sucks.

A: It really fucking sucks.

B: To him.

Then drink.

9.  If someone wants to hunt down my ex-girlfriend Anne and punch her in the boob, that would be much appreciated.  Hated her.  She’s probably the reason for this.

10.  Please do not delete my Facebook account, as I relish the idea of you all getting messages that say ‘Reconnect with him’ with my picture on it after I’m gone.  Ha-ha, suckas.

These conditions are all legal and binding, and I will come back and haunt you, ironically, if you don’t adhere to them.

Aging Hipster

Posted from my Iphone

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