Tag Archives: poetry

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

badly,

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!

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Trollin’ Dirty: Guest Poemit Derrick Paulson

Derrick sent this in to me, and I think it’s pretty sweet.  It’s about Dungeons and Dragons, goblins, and a distinct lack of coffee.  Enjoy!

Dungeons & Dragons by 5 a.m.

by Derrick Paulson

“There are at least five goblins standing still,”
Our DM tells us from behind his screen,
“Yet more keep coming down from up the hill.”

We hack and slash in turn and drink our fill
Of blood; but, when the dust clears on the scene
There are at least five goblins standing still!

The wizard walks unarmed to show his skill,
With gestures grand and continence serene,
Yet more keep coming down from up the hill.

His magic missiles seem supreme until
The cleric summons all his gods to scream:
“There are at least five goblins standing still!”

We cast our die again and curse our ill
Luck that has left us few and far between,
Yet more keep coming down from up the hill.

With might and fury now we fight and kill,
But our DM, when cranky, needs caffeine:
“There are at least five goblins standing still,
Yet more keep coming down from up the hill.”

 

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Why writing dirty poems about Smurfette counts! Or how you found me.

Boy,  Search terms sure are awesome!  Who’d have thunk people would stumble upon my little poemetry blog looking for ‘Cigarette fire’ or ‘Darth Vader Taking a Dump”, but by far the winner, the Sex with Smurfette poem, showing the true winning power of fucking filth over literature.  Apologies for the bad formatting, but I couldn’t be bothered to clean it up.  I’m off to write more Smurfette poems.  Here’s the list of how people found me, in order.

smurfette 1,493
smurfette pictures 163
pictures of smurfette 24
zombie wedding vows 12
dirty smurfette 11
smurfette pics 10
“fuck you i’m from kansas” 10
pics of smurfette 10
smufette 10
smurfette image 10
smurfette images 10
picture of smurfette 9
smurfet 9
smurfette hot 8
smurfette picture 8
smurf poem 8
smurfette photos 6
smurf me harder 6
smuffette 5
hot smurfette 5
images of smurfette 5
aging hipsters 4
smorfet 4
hipster leather jacket 4
funny obama poems 4
“fuck you, i’m from kansas” 4
smurfette slut 3
midget poems 3
geek artfag 3
slutty smurfette 3
photos of smurfette 3
continue retry 3
aging hipster 3
smurfing 3
hipster leather jacket guys 3
dusty schaffer 3
smurfette poem 3
passing cloud cigarettes 2
smurfette + pics 2
smurf sex poem 2
midget poem 2
darth vader taking a dump 2
smurfett 2
smurfettw 2
smurffette 2
illiterati poem 2
seussian poem 2
fuck you im from kansas 2
f*ck you, i’m from kansas 2
cigarette fire 2
smurfette image 10
smurfette images 10
picture of smurfette 9
smurfet 9
smurfette hot 8
smurfette picture 8
smurf poem 8
smurfette photos 6
smurf me harder 6
smuffette 5
hot smurfette 5
images of smurfette 5
aging hipsters 4
smorfet 4
hipster leather jacket 4
funny obama poems 4
“fuck you, i’m from kansas” 4
smurfette slut 3
midget poems 3
geek artfag 3
slutty smurfette 3
photos of smurfette 3
continue retry 3
aging hipster 3
smurfing 3
hipster leather jacket guys 3
dusty schaffer 3
smurfette poem 3
passing cloud cigarettes 2
smurfette + pics 2
smurf sex poem 2
midget poem 2
darth vader taking a dump 2
smurfett 2
smurfettw 2
smurffette 2
illiterati poem 2
seussian poem 2
fuck you im from kansas 2
f*ck you, i’m from kansas 2
cigarette fire 2

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He’s Coming to Stop the Gays, The Pope!

A rousing sea chanty to welcome the Pope ironically, that you can sing along with your friends!

Directions:

1)Divide the room in half.  Have one side yell the ‘”He’s coming to stop the gays!” part, and the other side yell “the Pope” on cue.

2)Find one person who’s really loud, to yell the ‘Gays’ section after the second chorus.

3)Get people banging on tables and stomping on the floor.

4)Remind everyone that this is meant ironically, and not an audition for the BNP!

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s a little old man in a big white hat,

And I think he doesn’t really know where he’s at

He hates the gays and that is that

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope


He’s a crazy old man in a big white dress,

And I hear that he used to be in the SS,

He just can’t get into that bad gay ass sex

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

Who?  (Gays!)

Who?  (Gays!)

WHHHHOOOO????   (GGGAAAAYYYYSSSS!)

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, Gays!

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, Gays!

He’s come all the way from the Vatican

To remind us that those queers are living in sin

And equalities great, but it isn’t for him

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, Gays!

He’s coming to stop the gays, the Pope

He’s coming to stop the gays, Gays!

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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.
Signed,

Aging Hipster

Posted from my Iphone

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