A Hipster Love Sonnet Sequence (Or Whatever)
1—His Skinny Jeans
My hipster is a spectacle of taste
In gray Skinny Jeans, his favorite pair
Culled from the thrift store with apparent haste.
They make me wonder: does he even care?
Cuffed at the Chucks or scrunched below the knee
With the button squeezed shut beneath his belt
Defining his stomach, hip bones, and spleen,
Giving him Muffin Top—that tender shelf.
I gaze from afar and I bide my time
Waiting and whiling and waiting a while
To glimpse each underworked muscle outline
Wrought by those Jeans of impeccable style.
They constrict my heart as they do his thighs,
Two sizes away from the correct size.
2—His Thick-Rimmed Glasses
Two sizes away from the correct size
And catching the light on the lens and frames
I wonder if they're plain or polarized.
He puts those 20/20 boys to shame.
With nonchalant style and indiff'rent class
My hipster's eyes are nothing like the sun—
The pupils made beady behind thick glass
And the boldest eyewear of everyone.
When he squints, I wonder, can he see me?
Are they prescription? Or are they a trick?
They make me aware of what I can't be.
Impervious they are, so black and thick
But easy in a crowd for me to find.
How is he so clear of sight yet so blind?
3—His Empty Case of Pabst Blue Ribbon
How is he so clear of sight yet so blind?
My hipster thinks when he stumbles from bed
Seeking endeavors of body and mind—
Blogging and list'ning to Radiohead.
It's 3 p.m. for the suckers who work
Toiling for the Man, cooped up in their suits
While he reads his Pitchfork and sighs and lurks
On Facebook and Twitter: noble pursuits.
He longs to have an original thoughtó
What has him so dead and so oft' beguiled?
Then he sees the empty Pabst someone bought—
It's the only thing that still makes him smile.
Last night and ev'ry night given to drink.
The haze of mid-afternoon makes him think.
4—His Antiestablishment Tendencies
The haze of mid-afternoon makes him think
About the scourge of all things that he hates.
My hipster is on the dangerous brink
Of denouncing all that is and awaits.
He's anti-business and corporate scum,
Anti-parents, though their money he gets,
Anti-musicians for what they've become,
Anti-smokes if they're not clove cigarettes,
Anti-exertion, of course anti-gym,
Anti-detergent and anti-shampoo.
While I can't hope to be as cool as him
He ne'er has anything better to do,
But rage with neither bravery nor shame.
I wonder from whence all his anger came.
5—His Original Taste in Music
I wonder from whence all his anger came.
His rants are long-winded and oft' rehearsed.
He hates anyone who's achieved some fame—
Sell-outs, he tells me, are really the worst.
Give my hipster the sad and angsty sounds
Of indie music that no one has heard
For it's phony if the music abounds
And for others to like it is absurd.
Give my hipster the twink'ling stars and moon
Let him lay down his unkempt head to dream.
But never interfere with his iTunes
Or suggest he hear anything mainstream.
And don't ever argue, instruct, or school
For he knew it all before it was cool.
6—His Personal Hygiene
For he knew it all before it was cool
And he stores it in his skin and his hair—
That greasy mop of near-total unrule
Illumes what otherwise would not be there.
Grossness embodied in each molecule—
The dirt tucked away 'neath his fingernails,
And grime beheld upon each follicle,
Cause him to shine where lesser beings pale.
Without his needed soil he couldn't bloom,
And without his mud he ne'er could flower.
Cursed be the cretin who tells him to groom
A pox on the dolt who'd have him shower.
My hipster is a filthy love bouquet,
He cannot simply wash it all away.
7—His Mustache
He cannot simply wash it all away.
He must prepare, trim, caress, and nourish.
So keep all your hateful judgments at bay
Whilst viewing my hipster's facial flourish.
The Handlebar, the Zappa, Fu Manchu—
These modes he attempts may strike you as odd
But you'll forget your doubts as soon as you
Behold my musty, musing, mustached god.
With whiskers in perpendicular style,
With mustache wax he waxes iconic.
Though he sort of looks like a pedophile,
He makes it hip because it's ironic.
Progressing a look so often debased
My hipster is a spectacle of taste.
