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Array
(
[sid] => 83811
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Diamonds in the Rough
[time] => 2005-02-10 14:02:44
[hometext] => I made GMC into a calligram or concrete poem. How does it work? Please let me know .
[bodytext] => At The Gothic Moon Café the open mike beckons for a voice. Tribal costumed youth answer the call, longhaired and/or shaved heads, some spiked, others colored green and purple, beaded and braided, male and female, their bodies pierced and tattooed, wearing baggy pants, ripped jeans, tie-dyed tee shirts and miniskirts. From the outrageous to the plain Jane, they line up and sign in. Most pack guitars, axes to pick and hack away in melody against the cacophony resonant in the mediocrity of middle-class life. Others speak in verse, selling stories of the wild banished children of the night, exiled by Main Street America, the stars of “muzak” videos filmed out in the streets or in cars and bars. Tales of obsession filled with emotion, discontent and hidden depression. It’s about them. A primal scream, a rap on life, a static noise echoing the etchings and scribbled graffiti found in toilet stalls and bathroom walls. Hip-hop street slang and language found in the MTV thesaurus, mixed with four letter words in a way that would make Lenny Bruce blush. It’s a Poetry Slam. They shout it out for shock, culture schlock, cultivated and spawned on the agar of hype in the Petri-dish of mass media and marketing. Youth exploiting youth, it’s all the rage, so listen, because some are in tune and you just might hear echoes of Kerouac, Ginsberg, and Baraka, or discover a new Morrison, Dylan, or Shakur. So, let them bear their souls and shout it out, because isn’t that what it’s all about? Poetry doesn’t die it evolves. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 161 [topic] => 69 [informant] => pvd [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 9 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => poets )
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