Poetry slam (or close enough)

[J a c k]

[Mr.Obvious]

[Mr.Obvious]

I don't think I'm really capable of leaving my comfort zone just yet, unlike Jack.

So here's this




A long hard look


Beyond the stalls whereto he ran, the faded mirror told his fate;
he sees only a nine dollar man stuck on his fourteen dollar date.
Entranced by the man reflected, he is unable to leave this place.
For gone is the charm once respected and the grin plastered on that face.
Lines carved into the registrar dealing in truth found late at night.
The jukebox mocks from afar, knowing it's spite can't be denied.
And he feels the needle scratch, for the record playing is his own:
with past mistakes made to match with a song of sinister undertone.
A chanted path that lead him here; face to face with his barren husk
filled with grease and stale beer and drenched in this diner's musk.
There is no real history to be seen, no single rise to have lead to a fall.
It's all been dreary and in between; mirrored mediocrity, the worst of all.
Ain't no rest-room for the wicked, no refuge in numbers on wood,
when you judge yourself convicted of not turning out how you should.

[Dr H]

The first time I heard the term "poetry slam", I pictured a guy standing on stage in a dimly lit coffeehouse, reciting his lines, while dodging flying tomatoes and being mercilessly heckled by the audience:


"You suck!"

"Transparently contrived dithyrambism!"

"Inept enjambment!"

"Derivative!"

"Iambic pentameter went out with Stevens!"

"Keep your day job!"




Sometimes, I still picture them that way.  

[Mr.Obvious]

I'll be sure to keep my day job, doc

[SteelCurtain]

This is a talent I am jealous of.

[J a c k]

Sorry I hadn’t gotten to it, Obvi. Here’s one of mine.  

[Mr.Obvious]

Sorry I hadn’t gotten to it, Obvi. Here’s one of mine.  

I absolutely love it.