My original sin in presenting this piece is to speak it with
a man’s voice, that
lacks both the music of a women’s
and the thunder of God’s.
Tonight I will bite and murder slam poet’s entire style at
the same time.
I will say things just because they sound cool when they
rhyme.
I’m a chrome-lightning, multi-paradigm wind-chime.
I’m the macho borracho that curb-stomped the Gestapo.
I’m a well hung, sprung-out, punk-ass bungalow-junkie.
I’m a man of the world and I’m a man of other worlds
And I’ve only been doing this rhyme-thing so I can have sex
with girls.
Depicting a conflict which is self inflicted.
I spin my fiction out of vindictive friction.
I’m spraying clichés faster than gamma rays.
I’m braying inane, more of the same.
I stay extra lame, like a human brain.
But I might win the slam tonight, if I spit a sound-byte
So tight that the light-bulbs blow like your mind
I might be untrue, but kind.
I grind like a finey on a cocaine high
when Ride the Lightning comes on KMFY.
But don’t you see? That flow was weak.
I didn’t say anything, all I did was speak.
I embellish my pretenses at the
expense of making sense.
My words spew like light refracted.
I’m tactless, the wack-ness.
If these lines were meant to impact kids
And the revolution is back then
We need leaders to enact this
So that the poetry slam would just
be soap-box practice.
This is how I make a slam poem:
I retrace my steps to something real
And I degrade it.
I make it my rude answer to any unasked questions.
I only wanted to tell the truth for once.
But the truth is, this poem is so trifling it is stifling.
The subject matter is far too self involved and
My rephrased clichés are less fresh than a whore’s bath.
The vulgar word play is my ego masturbating.
