29.8.19

What's spoken word?




What's spoken word?

Don't tell me you've never heard. That's absurd. You know poetry, right? For one night we do it in the spotlight, rhyming lines about life, rights and fights, completely undeterred. We each take our turn to make the crowd emotionally stirred. Spoken word the opposite of that feeling of being in a group of people singing a song you've never heard.

What do people talk about?

Whatever they need to get out. You can't predict which way creativity's gonna sprout. It's not just about rocking up at your nearest pub holding a bottle of Bud and seeing what you can churn out – that's a cop out. It's about being honest and seeing who takes your hand when you hold it out. It's about getting over your self-doubt and making yourself count.

What types of people perform?

There's not really a norm. Tutors, roofers, Chief Supers, drivers, miners and skivers – everybody can get something from this art form. Come along and you might see former drug addicts explain how they reformed, grieving widows describe a loved one they desperately mourn, and dreamers talk about the moment they were spiritually reborn. Anyone can get up on stage and cook up a storm, open hidden doors and be impossible to ignore. What did you think, we all wore uniforms?

What do they sound like?

It's kind of a cross between poetry, hip hop and rap, with so many blurred lines. People tear open their wounds and make them shine. Every time you turn up you don't know what you're gonna find. Some people shout, throw their weight about and look you right in the eye – others hide behind their phones, and you wonder why, because their words are powerful enough to make you cry. You'll hear rehearsed and improvised rhymes by nervous and confident kinds going up for the first or the 50th time.

How does it make you feel?

It's unreal. Sometimes poetry's a bit of light-hearted fun, other times it's a proper ordeal. It might be politicised and open your eyes to a human rights issue, or it might plan a seed that slowly makes you feel free and inspires you. There's nothing more real than when people reveal what destroyed them and helped them heal. We're beloved, accepted and empowered in our collective ideal.

Why do you go?

At first I went there to meet girls, but at the first show I went to everyone was so old. And they were so slow, their rhymes had no flow – no one there was a pro. But that was so long ago. These days I don't come to meet girls, or bring girls, or escape girls, but to rock my world watching complete pros steal the show with poems that make you go 'woah'. And I'm distant from my family, but what I've come to know, is that spoken word is my home. When I'm low my brothers and sisters here help me grow. So I'll keep coming here 'til I'm old, get all slow and lose my flow – because it's what I owe.

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Our love is




An intense love, like two tornadoes ravaging the world as they sweep towards each other  tearing structures to shreds, tossing debris into the air, flattening every object in their path. One tornado blasts its way across the Pacific Ocean and arrives on Asia's shores, crushing ancient civilisations as it moves purposefully, deliberately towards the other, which incinerates jungle after forest after field in its equally ferocious journey through the Americas.

A complex love, like a 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzle we start tackling first at the corners, before building the edges and sides to slowly form a complete image over many years – one granular piece of detail at a time. The jigsaw is a patchwork of our individual lives, experiences and identities  constantly evolving misshapen pearls which, before our eyes, merge and marry into a pure picture of our shared soul.

A hopeful love, like a dog walking to meet his master at the train station every day at 5.30pm without fail (and without having to be taught). A dog which, even when his master doesn't make it home one evening, because he has died at work, continues to wait at the platform. He sees his master's train come to a stop and the doors open, and his master fail to appear  but he stays there a while longer, just in case. His face bears the brunt of 100mph winds from a dozen subsequent trains speeding past. At midnight, the station closes. The dog returns to his master's home and sleeps in his kennel, repeating the routine the next day and  such is his loyalty – every day for his remaining 14 years.

Our love is this.


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16.6.19

You can't measure art




You can’t measure art.

Not in likes, not in subscriptions, not in hits, not in retweets, not in shares, not in video views, not in web traffic, not in session duration, not in followers, not in mentions, not in impressions, not in profile visits, not in conversions, not in post reach, not in active users, not in link clicks, not in the numbers of people "going" and "interested". Not in sales.

You can’t measure art. 

Not in the wide eyes, expectant faces and creative minds in the audience. Not in the nodding heads and clicking fingers, not in the decibels of cheers and applause. Not in the thoughts provoked, epiphanies experienced and perspectives changed forever.

You can’t measure art. 

Not in the lasting friendships and relationships built, not in the feelings of acceptance and self worth nurtured. Not in the giving of purpose, the fostering of community and respect among peers. Not in the strangers connected by ideas and experience, the new visions given, not in the transcending of life.


But we need funding, so can you fill out this feedback form?


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20.1.19

Off-Day



I'm having an off-day

But it feels worse than an off-day
It feels like the bad old days
When I ran away from teachers I refused to obey
When no one came out to play cos the sky was all grey
When it all became about how much booze I could put away

They said it was just a phase but it was a gateway to cocaine
Comedowns on rainy days washing my young hopes down the drain
I was destined for an early grave

Til she came along and took away my pain
Led me away from waste, hate and decay
To bigger, better and brighter days
She was from the other side of the tracks, her parents went to the ballet, for the matinee, drinking cabernet, on holiday in Marseille - a total cliche
Though I’ve got to say, they were kind of OK

But man she was my main aim
She made my pain go away
Made my heart fly to the Milky Way
Didn't matter how much more she got paid
Our love ran two ways
I was so lucky and I knew she felt the same

Man she set my heart ablaze
Through her I learned stuff I shoulda known anyway
She taught me not to expect praise
Taught me how to behave
Taught me not to accept come what may but find better way
Taught me Uruguay isn't pronounced U R Gay
Days I saw her were my favourite days
Cos with her, finally, I wasn't afraid

But I was easily led astray
Cos I was raised a tearaway
Addiction struck me down again
Getting into fights, having X-Rays
She never complained
But I knew after that it could never be the same
I'd pushed her away, my welcome outstayed
And now I’d never again wake up to her beautiful face
That privilege - gone to someone else unworthy to claim

I felt shame cos I was to blame
I wanted her back so badly I prayed
And I prayed
And I prayed
And I prayed

But nothing changed
That was three years ago and I still feel the same

I saw her walking with another guy just today
I didn't know what to say
Cos all those memories I hadn't erased
Came back and burned me like old flames
Then she saw me and held my gaze
Gave me a cute smile and threw me a cute wave
We both said "hey" and for a second we were together again

One and the same
Feeling pride not shame
Feeling love not hate
Feeling hopeful again
In that moment before she drifted away

Sailed past, leaving me standing there like a castaway
A single tear fell down my face, forever unclaimed
But I know it's me who’s to blame

Sorry man I got carried away, but anyway
That's why I'm having an off-day

That's why I'm having an off-day



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