if I had to explain it,
hipsters would dream inside beer-tinged sheets,
and fall asleep while their phones beep
and sepia seeps
down the counter
with this morning’s spilt coffee,
tipped over and
a hooded face and padded feet,
like when your tears give you away
and smudge your pillow case.
Bullshit rushes deep and seduces you whole
when you do something as basic as
try to sleep, so
what kind of dreams are we talking about here anyway?
Because sleep just sucks you down
and kicks you over to the other side
like how every fucking day is always the same,
and you just do it until you can’t even,
when you come
screeching to a halt
with the record that scratches,
waking you up.
Hipsters dream when they’re awake
because Alexander wept and shit,
and everything’s not anything
if it all happens on the next page,
or on the other side
of a screen.
Dreams aren’t anything anyways,
except grounds from this morning’s coffee
sloshed around in beer and backwash from your afternoon,
and poured together into a toxic stew
over your bed
by the guy that sat behind you in the second grade,
waking you abruptly and leaving you frayed.
I don’t think hipsters even dream …