Every now and again, rarefied gems of such exquisite hipster stupidity come along that beg to be shared with everyone on the internets. See: Cobrasnake, shirts with ironic sayings printed on them, BANGS, auf’d condoms/swapping STDs and good old, trusty old American Apparel! The various blogs and bulletins hipsters post on myspace.com and the like are a veritable goldmine for this sort of thing. A treasure chest full of premium hipster idiocy, trust fund baby spit-up and temper tantrums. Here is where I collect the best of the worst and present them for your (dis)pleasure.

Welcome back to But Enough About You…the hipster overshare portion of the week where my douche is your douche! What a treat this week I have for you, what a special child in our midst. I found me a real, live hipster POET! (Weren’t we just discussing Jack Kerouac? No? Must have been someone else then, sorry.) A rhyming poet, no less.

Without further ado, I give you “a literary gentleman.” You tell me, can you meet his standards? Can you be who he wants you to be? Are you up for his anti-hipster hipsterness, game for such a glottological, psychedelicious, mixed-media-masturbatory high? Can you handle it? We’ll just have to see, won’t we?

Please read on to learn more about the kind of person our dear poet wants to meet:

Who. I want to meet those just a fraction different. They might be like this: Original-ish. Crazy, wild, naked-chinese-fire-drill participants in the middle of a busy intersection, dancing around, rocking out to an i-pod that only half of us can hear but we sing it anyways, puddle stomping, yelling at cabs to get the f*ck out of the way type of people.

Playground, not-quite ready to grow up type, actually playing on the monkey bars without mind of their feet dragging on the ground, still have fire, and life, and adventure and whatever else interesting or entertaining, that have it in their eyes, that it glows, that idea of those that never gave up on never growing up type of people.

Those that I can learn anything from. I played chess with Sam (a bum) in the park for two hours and got him wasted off of wine that I was supposed to bring to a party allthewhile catching hypothermia because well, I wanted a story and something different – I WANT TO MEET THOSE THAT AREN’T AFRAID TO SMILE AND BE AND EAT WAY TOO MANY CUPCAKES OR SNOWCONES OR CHOCOLATE BARS OR WHATEVER ELSE AND CHASE IT WITH A GALLON OF MILK OR VODKA (disclaimer, drinking with me does require a waver from time to time) and get it all over your clothes and not even care because at the end of the day you’ll remember that moment, and well – thats all that matters.

I want to meet the people that drink not because it is a social game that society plays with us because we are at this age that it is just something you do but rather because it is AN ACTION of CONSUPTION that offers a moment of freedom from the F*CKING psychological construct of what society IS while also allowing the state of libation to serve as an excuse to you know, get a lil’ crazy and enjoy the company of others and maybe even you know, DANCE A LITTLE –

I want to meet spiral, star, paisley, anything but square types. Not that I mind square types, they just aren’t nearly as entertaining. Sorry Bob, I will not be able to talk to you about THE time you received your memo at the office, I have people to see, places to be, and a clock that is running. My candle, it burns bright, very very bright.

I want to meet individuals that impress the world not because they want to, but because that is who they are, it is their being. That, that person, that idea, that is who.


My only hope come ‘morrow being that I wake to experience another,
I find myself here in Paris, writing, being, living and feeling
Joie de vivre, as NY and SF are good friends, with Paris I found my lover
with departure, they’ll be a day i’ll return – most likely in need of healing.


Wing-ed flight here among the night

Black clouds gather & rain they might

Nervous smiles glow, and with my delight

That angelic bird lifted, soared, mid-flight

With hands of art, each with we collect

Times and moments that can we reflect

Wing-ed flight, I found thus suspect

Yet flight found me, and I rose, affect

Once words for me no longer have lift –

At that time my, me, this – will shift

And many a day and many a night

I find I write and write until it’s right.

Mother of God, was that not precious? Wasn’t it? Now, please excuse me while I go and sob into the pages of Antonin Artaud and Kathy Acker. I’ll see you in the comments!

*Contributed by SkinnyBoneJones*