Thursday, November 8

angelheaded hipster?

the lonely girl with many friends,
dreamt of a world filled with smokey coffee shops,
jazz cats reading poetry,
bohemian mecca.

And one night,
after breathing in some sweet dank,
her lungs exploding with the thickness of the smoke,
she caught eyes with another loner hipster,
sealing the moment forever in her mind,
smoky, hazy, tribal.

Fascinated by the rain, entranced by the beat and the pounding against the windows, roof,

She would write poetry, to be shared with no other.
She would read all the greats. She would go to college,
hate the structured scheduled life and stop going to class, bored.

Art and jazz and coffee houses would be her teachers.
She would scribble furiously, energized by caffeine and creativity,
searching for her god, her inspiration, her meaning. Fueled by jazz. Scrambled.

wanderlust engulfing her, pulsing through her veins. the desire to see, to find her place. search for the dharma. enlightenment.

Heady reds made her head fuzzy, her thoughts dance. Odd jobs would pay for her home, a refuge for other likeminded souls, where until the dim lights of dawn touched the corners of the black night, they would conversate kerouac, ginsberg, burroughs, hesse, rand, blake...the dreamers, the hipsters, the brilliant.

oh she ached deep in her soul. walls filled with hastily penned odes, laments and lost dreams.
meaning so close, almost within her grasp. sketches from friends. lovers who touched her deeply, spiritually. aching for this world.

existance on a higher plane. drugs. tribal heady beats was her bloodflow. mesmorized by the junkies, faded, stooped, quiet, almost dead.

walking dark streets, fearless, or maybe not, scared she would never find her place, her love. her home. for that is the longing of every person.

fallen angel. entranced by bass,
the promise of mysterious...

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