Tag Archives: spoken word

October 24, 2014 · 12:32 pm

Out of hand…

My latest poem ‘Out of hand…’

It always started like this for him,
beer in hand, everything in hand,
a few mates just having a laugh,
a vodka chaser, another quick half.

On this night though he was seeing doubles,
a line of then lined up on the bar,
another tequila placed in his hand,
as this runaway night grew out of hand.

Like other nights that had gone before,
everyone out drinking knew the score,
everyone having a laugh and another line,
the same group of mates out for a good time.

On this night, time had slipped away fast,
as each drank what they said was their last,
before lighting a ciggie that burned bright red,
producing a light that leads from bar to bed,

The night tried to end with the kebab in hand,
everything in hand although a little unplanned,
a stumble sideways as he enjoys his last smoke,
before seeing he’s been joined by another bloke.

‘Give us a drag mate’. ‘Nah, you’re alight mate’.

And with that he sees the end game of the night…

…the inevitable fight.

As this big fuck squares up all he thinks is fuck it,
before his hand digs down deep into his pocket,
in those next moments it didn’t feel like taking a life,
any more than what he was holding felt like a knife.

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May 5, 2014 · 1:53 pm

Hollie McNish takes on Flo Rida’s ‘Blow My Whistel’

A massive hat tip to the spoken word artist Hollie McNish for this.

Her poem (below) is a fantastic verbal deconstruction of the warped sexual imagery that is too often found in hip hop. She focuses as a case in point on Flo Rida’s ‘Blow My Whistle’.

Please do give it a listen. But to enjoy her latest poem in its full play both videos at the same time but mute the sound on Flo Ridas’ ‘Blow My Whistle’.

Enjoy:

Innovative and clever. Hynd’s Blog likes it!

 

*I first saw this over at the amazing Poejazzi spoken word site.

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July 6, 2013 · 12:44 pm

The incarcerated nomad

A global nomad,
a no-man belonging nowhere,
desperately trying to escape,
another concrete landscape,
to  avoid another urban jail,
to speak through a medium,
other than posted airmail,
from one job,
to  another,
a quick meet and greet later,
a latte with a filofax,
income tax,
money back,
staring,
dreaming,
scheming,
to try and get the sack,
a sack back on his back,
so he can turn his back,
on this concrete jail,
push his boat out to sail,
He wants to rest his head on a new shore,
rest assured that he can actually rest,
where the air gives credit to the phrase,
take a breather,
this global nomad wants to go,
to another land, another place,
to escape the 9-5 rat race,
to sit back and take it at his own pace,
the impossibility of this though,
just goes to show his predicament,
and so, he is too often found,
in the bars, incarcerated, exasperated,
knowing nothing will see him set sail,
and let him escape his latest urban jail.

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May 20, 2013 · 10:45 am

Losing count

Speaking to no-one in particular, he says she’s spoken for,
but wanting something more her young heart breaks in two,
inside himself, to no-one else, he tells her that she’s the one,
but it’s been too long since he has spoken these three words.

Back home, she opens her mouth, and his anger and fists begin to rise,
she closes her eyes, and tries to hide, to put all of this out of her mind,
she pictures in her mind’s eye the softer touches of other calmer nights,
as she reaches out, with pleading in her eyes,  he reacts back, and

That was that. .

The morning after, her cheeks are bruised and smudged with mascara,
she goes to work and thinks of nothing but him and her cracking heart,
she knows her mind is crumbling and it’s not just her bodies that suffering,
there and then, she says, enough is enough, I won’t take this no more.

He stops in his tracks, he’s been walking the streets running from himself,
his mind is dwelling on the job he doesn’t have, and his fists are swollen,
He stops and stares, but does not dare, to dwell on his aching heart,
that is overflowing with the shame. Who is this man that he has become?

With his body numb, and this thought dwelling on his mind, tears starts roll,
down go his defences and down goes the possibility of carrying on as if nothing,
is going down. His hands tremble and his legs give way. Sitting there slumped,
he knows he can’t get much lower, and so he too decides to lift himself up.

Staring at her own front door she resolves that she’s worth something more,
turning on her heel she takes hold of herself and her trembling hands,
she strides with small steps away from her house and her home, all alone,
she walks and turns the corner of her street and her life and resolves that,

never again will he cause her mascara to streak….

Turning his keys, he realises his hands are shaking and his stomach is turning,
with flowers in hand, bought with an empty wallet he wipes away his tears,
stepping over the doormat, he resolved this would be the fresh start they need,
he drops his car keys onto an empty hallway table where her car keys should be.

The silence engulfs him. Finally, whispering to no-one, he says those three words,

she’s the one, and there and then, his heart starts to break in two.

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May 7, 2013 · 10:46 am

Respect

These are some thoughts on respect…

You talk too much about this word, respect.
You and your rude boys who run the street,
worried about getting respect in the eyes of your crew,
all the time using, abusing and excusing this notion,

respect.

You see, you neglect to respect those who walk,
on the other side of the street that you run,
you neglect to respect those who stay,
in their houses once the sun has set cos,

of your violent understanding of this term,

respect.

You see, my respect for you is gone,
when you see the street before,
the person who walks the street,
when you respect nothing but respect

You see, my respect for you is gone,
when your drive for respect sees you,
running from  another idiot with a knife
who has no understanding of this term,

respect.

So let me tell you about how I see this word,

respect.

Although it is bounded around on the street,
it starts next to the beat of a man’s heart,
you see it when you look into your own eye,
You see, it’s not about your boys or your crew,

just you.

You see respect in others who walk the street safe,
in the knowledge that their biggest concern is,
they’re latest attempt at some romancing, not,
constantly glancing, at what’s over their shoulder

Most of all though, my respect for you
rests on one simple question,
Can you hold a conversation with my ma,
with out her worrying who the fuck you are?

Cos in the end, it’s as simple as that.

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