Hipster Bingo

Here's a Hackneyed old poem…

Hipster bingo

I go to Stratford, never miss it,
Watch basketball, season ticket,
But the one thing that does make me sick
Is the punters down at Hackney Wick.
We know them,
We know their stunts,
They may be mates,
But look like...

Bowler-hatted Thompson twins,
His girlfriend made of
Bits of Sega Megadrive,
His pet brick on roller-skates, tied,
To an upturned milk crate
With day-glo twine,
Supping baked bean cans
Of cat-piss wine,
Cinzano and Marmite
In crotched schooners,
Yetis in dungarees
Fax-machine shoes on.
They're on the edge,
They've got the wedge, but
They long to be
Back in East Berlin
Buying vinyl
With 80s pfunts,
We know them,
We know their stunts,
They may be mates,
But look like...

Purple, kitsch, straw-donkey dolls,
With sour dough lives.
The organic barley sweet
Sandwich brigade;
(No bread, thanks,
My diet's lego-flav'ed).
There's the 2nd grade
Fishermen with listed beards,
Standard issue macs.
Standard issue ideas.

However,
The proper locales
With aerosol aftershave,
Are actually alright,
A bit fucking loud,
But then, I lack the
Drug budget or desire or
Noel Edmunds sensibility,
To talk toss
Between 10 grand rounds,
'Bout music that does not exist,
As time ticks round,
To the 2pm guest list.
Down, on the waterfront.
We know them,
We know their stunts,
They may be mates,
But look like...

Those who
Curate things
That can't be curated
Drink the
Over-priced, Under-proofed,
Overrated.
Childish art
In childish bars
By capitalist
Fanzine influence czars.
Who ain't at al,l appetising,
Pretend to work in advertising
For Japanese
Skateboard companies
Where trucks are
Expensive
But kicks-flips are free...
Proto-old-school-neo-
Rich-over-simplists,
Piranha man-bagged
Fixed-wheel opportunists.
The unpopular people's
Eastern front.
We know them,
We know their stunts,
They may be mates,
But they look like
Act like,
Complete
And utter…