The Hipsters are here. There’s no stopping them.

They are throw backs to beat poets who hate them.

The copycat brethren of false intelligence.

Hoodlums dressed like nerdy impersonate.


They stroll the poor towns they decorate with old art.

50s pin ups and 60s haircuts, they are the false smart.

“I am a canvas,” they say, “My life is poetry.”

Leave it to the useless to approve their own credulity.


Cult and fashion are not the flag of individuality,

You are confusing social grouping with vague sincerity.

Like mice convinced they own the maze of unique,

You are the Dumb that brow beats the meek.


You will not find wisdom in stylized polaroids.

Hipsters exist in a narcissists void.

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