Send it all away.

He's the King of Hipsters without trying
rolling filterless cigarettes in his teeth and lips
lighting them with his cold-burning apathy
buttoned down corduroy blazer-vest over scotch plaid
sleeves rolled up exposing varieties of ironies
scarred into his arms and elbows, the ink always fresh
a glass knob on a dressertop
and each scene girl clenches her fists in lust and envy
as his hair is always right and the eyes of parents everywhere
look on and disapprove and misconceive
as everyone else does
his style or flare or generation confusion some say
and the thickly black-rimmed glasses jeweled--
hung on his face like a broach on a queen or a witch
with a spell for uncaring cool
and telling others of his likes or disses
the freely given bikes and accessories
that ornament the front of his greenwich flat
in san fran with garrulous decorations
from the seventies and tie-die curtains like silk scarves
and rolled-up tight black denim around his thin calves
shows his disdain for commonality and norms
but the glitter on his cheeks and in his pupils fades
and in dying sunlight
as the last scene fades
the Last King of Nobody Cares
drops away with the sun of scene
and tomorrow maybe a more sparsely upholstered vanguard will triumph
and the new kind of it-ness
a new in-ness, holding the scalp taut by the hair
of the king wearing his crown of Irony after the blood dries
will reign; a ventureless wanderer, one who holds
his primacy in trendiness more seriously
and his apathy more dogmatically
swerving from lightpost to curb
his fixie with a flat, not caring
never caring, pabst his shirt says
but he doesn't care
and as he rolls his cigarette, slowly
the scene apparates around him
and the king again in his court is worshiped
and despised and demonized and rendered
inconsequential by his own steadily declining
interest in anything of interest until the blackest
nihilist heart within him bursts with flame and verbosity
screaming in a thousand tongues
"I care not, send it away, send it all away."