19.4.04 [ ] 0 comments 
ahem, the following is my attempt at beat poetry.
For best viewing, please imagine that you are at some hipster café with poor lighting and some abient, undergound house music is seeping in from the club next door. You are sitting in an uncomfortable, too-tall stool that reaks minimal, mod style at the back of the café in one of the many round, too-tall tables. On your table is a napkin and a double-mocha-frappa-esspresso-chino, it cost you $7.34 (don't forget to tip the waitress, who is one of the lost souls of heroin chic and scowls whenever someone tries to pay or talk to her; her black T-shirt reads: "I have issues").
There are ten people in the café. Four are huddled in the table closest to the door (heavy oak, nestled between faceless concrete walls) around a newly-printed 'zine talking in low groans which are inaudable save for the flapping smack of tongues against teeth; they notice neither you nor anything nor anyone. They must be part of some club. For, each one wears a seeming uniform: black turtlneck, black berret colourless pants, and black leather shoes. All having long hair tied back in a pony-tail, it is difficult to discern which are male and which are female under the dim lighting of the café.
In the table closest to the stage, there are two people. The first buries her nose apathetically into a slim leatherbound book, whose title is illegible (an unkown foriegn language, maybe german, or polish, or russian; it looks defamiliarizingly europian). Straight black hair waterfalls down to and almost completely envelops her long-sleaved black sweater. She wairs a less-than-knee-length black leather skirt which inches up toward her thieghs every time she moves. Her companion has thick red dredlocks of old growth. That is, you can almost smell them from twenty feet away. He wears a green venezualan army jacket which is adorned with buttons supporting this cause or that one. His fingers stroll lazily across the skin of his metal daruka.
An older man with a graing beard smakes a pipe in the table to the left of the musician. He skitters between reading the newspaper (the wall street journal, in print; most obviously his and most obviously ridiculously expensive, why didn't he just look up their web site?) and reading the buttons on the mucisian's jacket. He and his clothes are well kept but his brown houndstooth sports jacket is a little tight in shoulders.
So, I approach the microphone on the stage (which has barely enough room for a single person).
"flowers, rainbows, clouds..."
The musician taps a light rythm on the daruka.
"eisenhower and einstein drink at..."
Wham!
"double time..."
"sunshine, seaweed, sugar, samsung.."
From the old man: "tell it like it is!"
"explosion"
tap tap tap
"emmi-nation!"
tinkitea tap - tap
"and the salvation of exploration."
"thank you"
You: "but wait, that doesn't even mean anything!"
However, your outburst is lost and unnoticed in the cascade of approving finger-snaps from the rest of the café (including the bitchy waitress).
Ah, I love beat poetry.
For best viewing, please imagine that you are at some hipster café with poor lighting and some abient, undergound house music is seeping in from the club next door. You are sitting in an uncomfortable, too-tall stool that reaks minimal, mod style at the back of the café in one of the many round, too-tall tables. On your table is a napkin and a double-mocha-frappa-esspresso-chino, it cost you $7.34 (don't forget to tip the waitress, who is one of the lost souls of heroin chic and scowls whenever someone tries to pay or talk to her; her black T-shirt reads: "I have issues").
There are ten people in the café. Four are huddled in the table closest to the door (heavy oak, nestled between faceless concrete walls) around a newly-printed 'zine talking in low groans which are inaudable save for the flapping smack of tongues against teeth; they notice neither you nor anything nor anyone. They must be part of some club. For, each one wears a seeming uniform: black turtlneck, black berret colourless pants, and black leather shoes. All having long hair tied back in a pony-tail, it is difficult to discern which are male and which are female under the dim lighting of the café.
In the table closest to the stage, there are two people. The first buries her nose apathetically into a slim leatherbound book, whose title is illegible (an unkown foriegn language, maybe german, or polish, or russian; it looks defamiliarizingly europian). Straight black hair waterfalls down to and almost completely envelops her long-sleaved black sweater. She wairs a less-than-knee-length black leather skirt which inches up toward her thieghs every time she moves. Her companion has thick red dredlocks of old growth. That is, you can almost smell them from twenty feet away. He wears a green venezualan army jacket which is adorned with buttons supporting this cause or that one. His fingers stroll lazily across the skin of his metal daruka.
An older man with a graing beard smakes a pipe in the table to the left of the musician. He skitters between reading the newspaper (the wall street journal, in print; most obviously his and most obviously ridiculously expensive, why didn't he just look up their web site?) and reading the buttons on the mucisian's jacket. He and his clothes are well kept but his brown houndstooth sports jacket is a little tight in shoulders.
So, I approach the microphone on the stage (which has barely enough room for a single person).
"flowers, rainbows, clouds..."
The musician taps a light rythm on the daruka.
"eisenhower and einstein drink at..."
Wham!
"double time..."
"sunshine, seaweed, sugar, samsung.."
From the old man: "tell it like it is!"
"explosion"
tap tap tap
"emmi-nation!"
tinkitea tap - tap
"and the salvation of exploration."
"thank you"
You: "but wait, that doesn't even mean anything!"
However, your outburst is lost and unnoticed in the cascade of approving finger-snaps from the rest of the café (including the bitchy waitress).
Ah, I love beat poetry.
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