The young hipsters seem lacking in energy and spontaneous enjoyment of life. The mention of pot or junk will galvanise them like a shot of coke. They jump around and say, “Too much! Man, let’s pick up! Let’s get loaded.” But after a shot, they slump into a chair like a resigned baby waiting for life to bring the bottle again.
- Junky, William S. Burroughs
The definitive hipster was sustained by his privileged background.
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Fine living … a la carte?
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LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
"All the luxuries of private home… ."
Now, won’t that be charming when the last flop-house
has turned you down this winter?
"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel
world… .” It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-
mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.
Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished
background for society.
So when you’ve no place else to go, homeless and hungry
ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags—
(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good
Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers—
sleepers in charity’s flop-houses where God pulls a
long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.
They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will
CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE
BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF
SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM
Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.
Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of
your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers
because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-
ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends
and live easy.
(Or haven’t you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-
ter bread of charity?)
Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get
warm, anyway. You’ve got nothing else to do.
gonna make a memorial wall here is LES JEWELS aka Joel from New Jersey, he was a skilled poet but was legendary for his life as a gutter pirate sailing the sidewalks of the east village. I once brought him back to life from an od, but he was ‘pushing his luck’ so to speak..
I think I got the pic from latfo, or a news article or something, anyway it’s a photo of him with horns on under the krishna tree.
Our subjective friend, Beauty
is a qualitative thing Indeed
she cannot be distilled and bottled
She cannot be smeared over vulger things
but she can be shown to many
and she can win hearts and minds
0nly we as conscious beings can see her
and see her we can and must
and facebook’s a damned graveyard..
There’s no place like home
there’s no place to go
can’t run away
because how could you know when you got there?
There is n o peace in this world
when we are all vermin fighting for scraps
there is no time for war, as there are no funds for peace
there is no electrical magick
no smoke no mirrors
here I stand
naked as on the day of judgement
naked as a mole rat
naked as an exotic dancer
as a newborn I am helpless
there is nowhere for me to go
nothing to do
I have already conquered this world
but it slipped through my fingers
streaks on a windowpane,
dirty glass made dirtier by the cleaning
a bug, a fly, a whisper of more
and I’m gone, after it
the chase is on, I tear down all former erections
as I sprint recklessly
through time and space
not heeding my obstacles or competitors
my objective is my own and nobody can take that
there is a war that I fight
if only it would stay peaceful
I dread the day when that gun goes off
and all my actions turn to dreams
and all my dreams, forever..
two thousand and one
the lives of so many
what could we have done
for years and years
we relive this day
thinking and talking
but it won’t go away
close your eyes
it happens again
a second plane’s hit
clouds of smoke shoot up
to choke out the sun
celebrate my birthday alone
in the downtown zone
snow in the summer
why can’t we go home
breathe in ashy dust
of asbestos and bone
the train isn’t running
you can’t work your phone
calling and calling
but it just doesn’t work
saint vincent’s wall
covered in faces
have you seen her
where is he
please help us
the cops who got out
the firefighters that didn’t
at work in the towers
the city silent
but for sirens
changes our world
we live with our fears
One for Stephanie Young…
I had a dream about Stephanie Young
had a dream that she was riding a match
like a cowgirl from a pinup magazine
like a witch would ride a broomstick
no paper match but wooden, a lit one at that
with fire spitting out where broom bristles would be.
I have said so much and I’ll say it again
but not here, not now can I tell that tale
of friendship and heartbreak and doom.
Stephanie, my friend who died in a fire.
It was a fire that could have been prevented
prevented how, I don’t know.
Life should never ever become that bad.
Life is a gift, for us to spend freely
some of us save it, hoarding the future
some of us burn it, with reckless abandon
and they often are the ones
who have the most fun.
I had always wanted to redeem the girl
but she never, ever asked me for help
as friends, all we did was drink and fight
She would always drink more
and cheer me up about losing.
damn, I miss her
hope she’s alright.
the labor of frankenstein monsters
shrunk down to the size of a pea
wrapped up in shrouds of cotton
and wound into the breeze
caught up in a windchime
and circled in to a wave
the tides of this puddle
get stronger each day
my winter is waning
with each fire I burn
soon summer will be over
and as the earth turns
spring season comes before us
bringing darkness to light
autumn leaves blow the harvest
pumpkin carves out the fright
turkey cries independence
christmas trees lit overnight
tile moves like jelly
with it’s structural mass
calculations without measure
river runs to the sea
who would count every droplet
as it rolls down the drain
cycling the lifespan
repeating circles again
Get some Ideas out of my head and onto the web.
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