Jassy Melson
08-13-2010, 04:29 PM
Rapping fragmented prose poems
in the coffeehouse of the August moon;
bored patrons lounge languidly
trying to look cool as they sip weak tea.
The would-be hip-poet savagely rips off
line after line of nonsense
pretending in his grimness
that he's Allen Ginsburg reincarnated
and that he doesn't care
what the patrons think.
You can hear the hissing escaping
from the would-be poet's side
as he keeps reciting in an angry monotone
the adventures of Allah Grimsborg
the incendiary nihilist poet
who only believes in himself,
all else being an illusion.
The audience dwindles as the angry rapper
hisses and spits out fragments of prose mixed with bits
of rhyme to give it a poetic flavor.
By the time he ends the audience is down to three.
So it was and so it is and so it shall be.
Some things will never change.
You tried to kill poetry but you died in the attempt.
You thought you could kill it by rapping
and by mixing prose with poetic fragments.
Poetry outlived you.
While you struck at it with mallets
and tried to stab its heart with spikes,
poetry went about its business
as you grew older and more desperate
and more incoherent.
You thought you were recreating poetry,
breathing new life into an old worn-out vessel;
you believed poetry was dead and required
a new voice to jump-start it.
But the voice you had in mind
was anti-poetic (though you didn't seem to notice),
and you proceeded to crowd the airways
with gobbledygook and nonsense
that you vowed was a new poetry.
You were in vogue for a few years
till the people finally saw through
your game and dismissed you.
And you slithered away still hissing
and spouting your pseudo-Zen and rapping
your fragmented prose poems
till your audience was reduced to one.
Your only gift was a bunch of hot-air balloons.
They hissed angrily for awhile
and then were silent.
Poetry outlived you.
in the coffeehouse of the August moon;
bored patrons lounge languidly
trying to look cool as they sip weak tea.
The would-be hip-poet savagely rips off
line after line of nonsense
pretending in his grimness
that he's Allen Ginsburg reincarnated
and that he doesn't care
what the patrons think.
You can hear the hissing escaping
from the would-be poet's side
as he keeps reciting in an angry monotone
the adventures of Allah Grimsborg
the incendiary nihilist poet
who only believes in himself,
all else being an illusion.
The audience dwindles as the angry rapper
hisses and spits out fragments of prose mixed with bits
of rhyme to give it a poetic flavor.
By the time he ends the audience is down to three.
So it was and so it is and so it shall be.
Some things will never change.
You tried to kill poetry but you died in the attempt.
You thought you could kill it by rapping
and by mixing prose with poetic fragments.
Poetry outlived you.
While you struck at it with mallets
and tried to stab its heart with spikes,
poetry went about its business
as you grew older and more desperate
and more incoherent.
You thought you were recreating poetry,
breathing new life into an old worn-out vessel;
you believed poetry was dead and required
a new voice to jump-start it.
But the voice you had in mind
was anti-poetic (though you didn't seem to notice),
and you proceeded to crowd the airways
with gobbledygook and nonsense
that you vowed was a new poetry.
You were in vogue for a few years
till the people finally saw through
your game and dismissed you.
And you slithered away still hissing
and spouting your pseudo-Zen and rapping
your fragmented prose poems
till your audience was reduced to one.
Your only gift was a bunch of hot-air balloons.
They hissed angrily for awhile
and then were silent.
Poetry outlived you.