Identical
Yeah,
In tight black slacks,
polar-neck, roller-neck beatniks,
with their matching snacks,
sway
at the feet
of existential dread.
(Bebop with the sax.)
A gliss of, “Niiiice”,
drifts up behind the footlight’s glare
and hangs suspended in the smoky air.
(The drum coughs up a trochee.)
Lifted out of West-side Story
Hipsters
Clipsters
Click the beat
and then the voice,
yeah,
demanding,
commanding, exhorting
distorting the reality of now,
and how, brother.
Just let it flow,
those in the know will understand,
or so it’s planned.
They say Sartre’s in the audience tonight,
but maybe they ain’t all that bright,
who cares?
At the bottom of those dim-lit stairs,
behind the door,
the energy is zippin’
because we’re trippin’
on the beat.
Yeah…