Slam Poetry

So i get a heads up on a slam poetry night on this wednesday in KL, and ended up chatting to one of the brains behind the whole thing, and like as if i needed any convicing i decided that i was going to be there, front and centre! Maybe with a peice of folded up paper of poetry, just in case the urge to jump up on stage surfaces.

^_^

as you can tell i'm super excited to be going, googled the place and evrything! Its just that with the loads of poetry i had, i couldnt pick one! So that meant i had to drop (if anything will be dropping) something fresh.

So I put on my mellow poetic vibes, sat in a dark room, smokey with thoughts,

and i wrote:

Third world demons
Entwined in the curls of afro hair
Cast deep set shadows
On the faces of 'the dark people'
From the black continent.

I’m sure you’ve heard of them,
Seen them, know them…

Figures with hollowed eyes,
Coated with a buzz of flies,
Media lies…
Curled up looking all diseased and sickly,
But I am not sick.
The parasite makes me sick,
Corrupted,
The Alcohol makes me weak,
Manipulated,
The poverty makes me meek.

The shackles were broken a long time ago,
By freedom fighters,
Panthers,
Messiahs!
But Still, laying on the dungeon floor,
A heap, unbound
with so much potential to be so much more…
But still laying on the floor,

In battle with myself over
Whether the arm or leg,
Banyankore or Buganda,
Malaysian or Indonesian,
Africans, European, Asians
Is more superior?

What is more superior?
Is it the neck or the head?
Or is it just what we are fed
Aren’t we all part of the same body,
Same country,
Same ethnicity,
Same human beings?

Just organs,
Of different biological functions
But all made of cells?

Is Black really dark,
Or is it our own shadows that tint us?
Sometimes we act possessed,
Most of us are media obsessed,
Used and confused,
Side-effects of
Third world demon mind tricks.

Usually my poems are short and sweet, but i made this a little hevier, longer, "slam-ier" (if such a word exists).

currently untitiled, but nomiated to be the poem i perform at my first open mic ever...

Locked out...

Little black girl
In a big bad world
Sat in the doorway
Head bowed,
Arms warped around her knees,

Alone, locked out.
He invited her in.

Swung the door open and approached, her
Nose flared, trying to catch the smell of coffee, sex, ill intent…
The air was clear, but her mind was fogged with conditioned stereotypes
That cast shadowy figures of black erections and beady black eyes in dark alleyways
Wifebeaters, blunts and beer,
A sense of fear
Was her initial reaction to him,
a brother, neighbor, possible friend, possible rapist,

He invited her in,

Offering her a place to wait until the locksmith came
She smiled and said no.
She was fine, although she really wasn’t,
She’d rather wait it out, alone
Than in a room of black men.

He opened the door,
She closed it and sat in the doorway
Alone.
Locked out.

MANuFACtured

Streams of brain matter pour into steel molds,
Shaped, to fit into the System,
Tested, to see if they’ll hold,
Disciplined, to do as their told,
Rejected, if they melt, crack or fold
But if they survive the engraving of education ,
They are passed down the assembly line,
Until a suitable use for them is found,
A lifetime bound,
A career.

They claim they’ve ‘found themselves’,
‘Realized what they were born to do’,
Programmed to do,
MANuFUCKtured.
Certificates issued and tagged,
Then ejaculated into the job market
Like sperm swimming to survive,
to sell, themselves.

Some get sold,
Like hot cheap pussy on a cold and lonely night,
Some stock up,
In the unemployment warehouse, Until:
They are bought at a lesser value,
Get too old to fit in the carton,
Break out or get broken,
Or simply rot.
Forgotten.
It doesn’t matter,
either way we are replaced
by better-stronger- faster-sluttier-dumber-younger
living products.

Manufactured.