Bassline – dVerse

You speak like the words are tripping over your tongue, boy, like your brain’s runnin’ too fast to share all your street joy, your mental agility, your linguistic ability- – – – – it silences me. I cannot compete, you’ve been doin’ it for years, listenin’ to those MCs, they’re controllin’ like masters, freestylin’ with fluidity, there ain’t no rigidity, shoutin’ over ghetto blasters – – – – – you’re a tough act to come after. So I ain’t rhymin’, or reasonin’, or trying to emulate, you win hands down, boy. I dig it.

Watching drum and bass MCs spit words like broken teeth sends me crazy.

 

Bassline

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This week, on dVerse Meeting the Bar, Bjorn is our benevolent bartender and he has cordially invited us to indulge in haibun (prose, followed by haiku), but he also invites us to test and distort the tradition. I think that I have broken all the rules, apart from using 17 syllables in the closing line, which is in the style of an American Sentence – because I love, love, love Allen Ginsberg, I couldn’t resist. And, because I spent some time last night watching a drum & bass DJ and MC on an internet radio station, I threw rhyme and rhythm into my (not quite) prose section.

Poetry is all about breaking the rules, right? I hope you enjoy it 🙂

Please pop over to dVerse to see how others have risen to this challenge.

 

 

All Whipped Up – dVerse Meeting the Bar

Here’s my latest entry into the dVerse Meeting the Bar. This week, Gay is urging us to explore American Sentences, 17 syllables of deliciousness a little like haiku, but sentence-style and jazzed up, beat poetry style. Allen Ginsberg, anyone?

My selection are inspired by the sudden cold-snap we seem to be experiencing (I love a clear night sky with a bright, white moon!), plus a remembrance of the Great Storm of 2013 we were hit by a few weeks ago. Oh, and the sea, because that’s where I live!

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– All Whipped Up –

My beach is glorious in winter, few choose to brave the elements.

My cheeks, whipped raw by sand and spume, rosy testament to Nature’s gifts.

My waves suck and draw shingle, crush shells, shred seaweed, salt crusting old boots.

My shuttered shops, empty carousel, cacophony for eyes and ears.