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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.

 

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Open letter to the Kansas Jayhawks

Dear Kansas Jayhawks,

Well…that was shit.

Willie

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