Broken Ears
Content
Broken Ears Poetry Sauce By Case Blackwell
email: [email protected] website: woodsinthebear.com
SCENE: BROKEN EARS POETRY SAUCE STAGE. The MC, a guy with dreads in a snood, enters. MC Brothas and Sistas from around the world and here for the word, welcome to Borken Ear’s Poetry Sauce! We’re gonna get real rhetorically relevant up in here tonight with some of the best wordists the scene has to offer, so lets not waste any time. Comin in first from the streets of Antigo Wisconson, brace the holes on the side of your brain for Marcus M. LeMarkington! MC exits, high fiving Marcus M. LeMarkington as he swaggers in. MARCUS M. LEMARKINGTON Sup Borken Ears. Word is bondage. I got a poem tonight with some real specific audiences. Aight... This is for the street sweepers, The soccer keepers, The hemophiliac bleeders, Mismatched sneakers, Mousy squeakers, People who wish I-Phone’s were cheaper, Mr. Peepers. Yeah. Late 90s references girl. This is for the single mother’s workin the streets 15 hours a night 7 days a week just to split a 12 piece with their 14 babies at 5 in the morning 20-26 times monthly depending on the month. Numbers. This is for the kids growin up with trains runnin by they windows, workin at Dominos, snackin on cheetos, frito bandido... Scorsesse’s Casino. This is for the Juvy Hall graduates, clingin to the pride in they stride just to get by. A slick limp and a hard face carved into our bones just to keep the street demons at bay. Kinda like this. (Marcus M. LeMarkington sticks out his lower lip, closes one eye and does a weird bow legged prance around the stage.) This is for four floors of freebasing whores fumblin on fallow floor boards, fishing frantically for a few more f woards. This if for the odd minds on the outside, the ones that refuse to subscribe to your idea of what’s right to keep inside, spendin most of our time thinkin bout erotic mini mouse fan fiction, got skin loss from the friction, eatin cottage cheese and ketchup in the (MORE)
2.
MARCUS M. LEMARKINGTON (cont’d) kitchen, startin my own religon, Call it: potty training for twenty somethings. This is for Mindy Cohne of Keystone Heights Florida. (pause) This is for me and maybe it’s for you, if you don’t know I’ll offer one more clue, it don’t matter if you’re black or blue or if you see the world or askew ya could even have one leg or two, or even bad skin, cause every word I speak is true, except a few, depends on how much meth you do. Oh yeah, no Jews. Pace Salsa! A Bassey beat kicks in. MC enters. Marcus M. Lemarkington high fives the MC then exits. MC Spitin magma rock one syllable boulder at a time. You feelin good so far? Well fuck good feelings! Live the moment, wherever it takes you. Up next we got a lady whose tearing the scene in half, taping it back together and mailing it to your mother. Welcome to the stage S. Ara. H. MC exits. S. Ara. H. enters. S. Ara. H. eyes the audience with intensity before beginning. S. ARA. H. I wasn’t raped. I was out in the park well past the appropriate time. Alone. Stood under a street light for six hours acting like I was lost, messing with my cell phone and cursing its battery life. I wasn’t raped. Went to three or four frat parties every week in college. Did nothing but vodka shots and coke and never brought any girlfriends to watch my back. I wasn’t raped. I have a creepy uncle that just got out of prison. Visit him every Tuesday after he gets back from bars in a cheerleader outfit holding a balloon that reads sweet sixteen. I wasn’t raped. I hang out at clubs frequented by NFL quarterbacks. I wasn’t raped. Sometimes I cruise the south side on Saturday nights wearing just fishnets, tell the guys who pick me up that I’m not a whore and that I just got jacked for my clothes and that I don’t know where I am and none of my friends or family even know I’m out. I wasn’t raped. I only date through Craigslist. (MORE)
3.
S. ARA. H. (cont’d) And I’ve still never been raped. What’s a girl gotta do to get raped around here? Be safe ya’ll. Bassey beat. S. Ara. H. exits. MC enters. MC Girl is hot! This next guy needs no introduction. Recently named Street Gramorist Magazine’s bestest man of the year, he will rape your ears till you like it. Welcome back, Swoop! Bassey beat. MC bows down as Swoop enters. MC exits. Swoop is a white man. Beat cuts. Swoop waits for the audience to die down. He has a sprawling style of speech and uses his hands to illustrate points. SWOOP My black pussy. MY! Black pussy. Earthy and pungent. Two centuries of oppression, Stillborn inside, My black pussy. I put two fingers in my black pussy, And till the earth, Of my black pussy. I trace the road map of my people on the walls of, My black pussy. My black pussy is proud and wide, A boat on which I ride, The portal to my insides, My black pussy. Your machines defile, Metal growls, Men they come, they plunge, they fowl, I stay pure, For you can force yourself on but never devour, My black pussy. Truths half spoken fall on deaf ears, Yet we all hear the lies. You say be silent. You call for cringing. Castigate defiance like its an infection. But I say take all the bullshit. Bring it right to me. Closer. Closer. Closer... closer. (motions for something to be brought closer to his crotch area) And tell it to, My. Black. (MORE)
4.
SWOOP (cont’d) Pussy. My black pussy is a fancy queen. Bassey beat. Swoops postures around the stage. MC enters. MC That’s it for the Broken Ears! Have a good night and be sure to tip your waitresses! END
email: [email protected] website: woodsinthebear.com
SCENE: BROKEN EARS POETRY SAUCE STAGE. The MC, a guy with dreads in a snood, enters. MC Brothas and Sistas from around the world and here for the word, welcome to Borken Ear’s Poetry Sauce! We’re gonna get real rhetorically relevant up in here tonight with some of the best wordists the scene has to offer, so lets not waste any time. Comin in first from the streets of Antigo Wisconson, brace the holes on the side of your brain for Marcus M. LeMarkington! MC exits, high fiving Marcus M. LeMarkington as he swaggers in. MARCUS M. LEMARKINGTON Sup Borken Ears. Word is bondage. I got a poem tonight with some real specific audiences. Aight... This is for the street sweepers, The soccer keepers, The hemophiliac bleeders, Mismatched sneakers, Mousy squeakers, People who wish I-Phone’s were cheaper, Mr. Peepers. Yeah. Late 90s references girl. This is for the single mother’s workin the streets 15 hours a night 7 days a week just to split a 12 piece with their 14 babies at 5 in the morning 20-26 times monthly depending on the month. Numbers. This is for the kids growin up with trains runnin by they windows, workin at Dominos, snackin on cheetos, frito bandido... Scorsesse’s Casino. This is for the Juvy Hall graduates, clingin to the pride in they stride just to get by. A slick limp and a hard face carved into our bones just to keep the street demons at bay. Kinda like this. (Marcus M. LeMarkington sticks out his lower lip, closes one eye and does a weird bow legged prance around the stage.) This is for four floors of freebasing whores fumblin on fallow floor boards, fishing frantically for a few more f woards. This if for the odd minds on the outside, the ones that refuse to subscribe to your idea of what’s right to keep inside, spendin most of our time thinkin bout erotic mini mouse fan fiction, got skin loss from the friction, eatin cottage cheese and ketchup in the (MORE)
2.
MARCUS M. LEMARKINGTON (cont’d) kitchen, startin my own religon, Call it: potty training for twenty somethings. This is for Mindy Cohne of Keystone Heights Florida. (pause) This is for me and maybe it’s for you, if you don’t know I’ll offer one more clue, it don’t matter if you’re black or blue or if you see the world or askew ya could even have one leg or two, or even bad skin, cause every word I speak is true, except a few, depends on how much meth you do. Oh yeah, no Jews. Pace Salsa! A Bassey beat kicks in. MC enters. Marcus M. Lemarkington high fives the MC then exits. MC Spitin magma rock one syllable boulder at a time. You feelin good so far? Well fuck good feelings! Live the moment, wherever it takes you. Up next we got a lady whose tearing the scene in half, taping it back together and mailing it to your mother. Welcome to the stage S. Ara. H. MC exits. S. Ara. H. enters. S. Ara. H. eyes the audience with intensity before beginning. S. ARA. H. I wasn’t raped. I was out in the park well past the appropriate time. Alone. Stood under a street light for six hours acting like I was lost, messing with my cell phone and cursing its battery life. I wasn’t raped. Went to three or four frat parties every week in college. Did nothing but vodka shots and coke and never brought any girlfriends to watch my back. I wasn’t raped. I have a creepy uncle that just got out of prison. Visit him every Tuesday after he gets back from bars in a cheerleader outfit holding a balloon that reads sweet sixteen. I wasn’t raped. I hang out at clubs frequented by NFL quarterbacks. I wasn’t raped. Sometimes I cruise the south side on Saturday nights wearing just fishnets, tell the guys who pick me up that I’m not a whore and that I just got jacked for my clothes and that I don’t know where I am and none of my friends or family even know I’m out. I wasn’t raped. I only date through Craigslist. (MORE)
3.
S. ARA. H. (cont’d) And I’ve still never been raped. What’s a girl gotta do to get raped around here? Be safe ya’ll. Bassey beat. S. Ara. H. exits. MC enters. MC Girl is hot! This next guy needs no introduction. Recently named Street Gramorist Magazine’s bestest man of the year, he will rape your ears till you like it. Welcome back, Swoop! Bassey beat. MC bows down as Swoop enters. MC exits. Swoop is a white man. Beat cuts. Swoop waits for the audience to die down. He has a sprawling style of speech and uses his hands to illustrate points. SWOOP My black pussy. MY! Black pussy. Earthy and pungent. Two centuries of oppression, Stillborn inside, My black pussy. I put two fingers in my black pussy, And till the earth, Of my black pussy. I trace the road map of my people on the walls of, My black pussy. My black pussy is proud and wide, A boat on which I ride, The portal to my insides, My black pussy. Your machines defile, Metal growls, Men they come, they plunge, they fowl, I stay pure, For you can force yourself on but never devour, My black pussy. Truths half spoken fall on deaf ears, Yet we all hear the lies. You say be silent. You call for cringing. Castigate defiance like its an infection. But I say take all the bullshit. Bring it right to me. Closer. Closer. Closer... closer. (motions for something to be brought closer to his crotch area) And tell it to, My. Black. (MORE)
4.
SWOOP (cont’d) Pussy. My black pussy is a fancy queen. Bassey beat. Swoops postures around the stage. MC enters. MC That’s it for the Broken Ears! Have a good night and be sure to tip your waitresses! END
