Beatnik

A Poem by Rhys Jacobs

A quick poem written on my phone.

Nobody knows
where you buy your coffee
and you like it that way.

You buy your smokes
at the tobacconist
by the ice-cream store.

You'll never smoke Princeton's.
your trust fund can afford
the imported cancer sticks.

What's it like
in your one-bedroom studio?
Do imported beer bottles
and kitchen kitsch
litter the shag carpet?

Does your mother know
you do blow on Sunday
when you should be in the pews
like every lapsing sinner?

And when Gavin, the Thrift-shop owner,
takes your organic weed,
does he know you sell it cheaper
to the kids at your underage girlfriend's private school?

the rent's five weeks late
but your band will break soon.
You just need to kick
that cocaine habit you picked up.

Everyone's a square
and you're the perfect circle
in the pegging position.
At least you like being fucked.

Your're a public feminist
and a closet sexist.
You've beaten women
like you beat the rap for possession.

You're surviving on daddy's welfare
and pizza delivery pay cheques,
dope money and ticket sales
to monthly trance events.

And at thirty-six you'll die,
your unwashed skinny jeans
wedged into your briefs.
A 'home-made' beanie will perch
atop your skull
like a Woolworth's crown.

The apartment smells like cats.
Landlord's at the door,
he needs his rent and his fix.
Somewhere, a record skips.