Thursday, 30 April 2009
Wednesday, 29 April 2009
in shoe boxes under the bed,
in brown, big envelopes
under the arm chair.
Banks give plastic.
Don’t see or feel.
takes love with one sugar.
sprawls through woodchip.
Performance Poetry slams... are dead.
Brown bread. Burnt.
Fallen, jam side down,
Clear the ring away
because poets will not fight today.
Won't judge. Won't jeer. Make this clear.
Speak quiet enough for everybody to hear.
Slams are dead.
Now, feel free to fancify your verse
where crowds won't curse or prey you are worse
than their own stanza.
Where hands are applauding. Not marauding.
Mouths cheering. Never sneering.
'Well, his rhymes OK but that metaphors weak.
He does go on abit. Hey! I wannna speak!
Make my mates all rate him low.'
There's no bitterness like show bitterness,
no bitterness i know.
Ding! Dong! The slams are dead!
There's no place like this home!
Our house crushed flat that wicked deed.
No more yellow bricking it before you stand to read.
Just sun gold ink on paper skies
and thoughts, coloured outside the lines.
Beer soaked wisdom. External rhyme.
Share lyrics and laughs.
Write shields, not swords
because friendship is cut by scoring boards.
Competing is unavoidable, in work or family.
Let poetry be a sanctuary.
A cloak to curb a hurricane,
though it only has one thread.
Make this known wherever we tread.
Free verse lives!
Slams... are dead.