Poem: Slam poetry

Trapped in red letters, stenciled on a memoir

cover, implanted in prisoner iris

chip before the music starts, the puzzle is plain

dusty wind sweeping, bars made of opinion

activism and shame, this is the condition

of everyone met, ever and on

for all time, floundering foolish fumbles

deaf dumb dilettantes, pacing bullshit

sound effects, like the space between words

makes a difference, performance like

actors dead already, I’ll snap at your cowardice.

 

That’s better, emotion makes no art

no rhyme no sequence, cool is honesty’s

rival, and alliteration awful anchovies

addictive and astronomical, looking through

telescopes is the best way to miss

the point, broad brush stroking

portraits of pincushions, mirroring what

we’ve all heard, all read in collective

pulpit pronouncements, only clap

if you agree, because that’s all

you’re good for anyway, cover the ears

of the children, and the parents

because there’s no point anymore.

 

So pow on a surface with a palm

flat, echoing the sound around

inside of echo chambers,  tension

grabbing at the strands, tie it

in a bow, clip it to your necktie

parading decoration, like a therapy

session group, ooh wee dope

is the best response, like you’d never

say if you were reading a book,

so it’s like improv, screaming scat

cats, and they are sincere

but you want art, coming in

costume dramas, not diary pages.

Poem: Slam poetry

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