Progression 2
Back and Forth.
My friend Jay likes her birth date.
She says its a call to action: March Fourth.
Her dread locks are limp tower blocks, forehead
for sky, nose, a shrouded figure speeding by,
back packed with sketchbooks and gas masks,
jeans patched more times than he’s matched sticks
to spliffs. He is a loose hoodied slouch
with spray cans, crouched by a train yard
————————————————————–
In that last post, I talked about wanting to keep the character, the graffer, static and save movement for later. I want him to run from the police / guards / etc which is a classic image in hip hop, someone rebelling against authority, the police specifically. I see him running through a sleeping city and kinda threw this on the page. I think it needs to be more specific…
…and to bridge the gap to the blues player, I want him to enter a house, and for music to escape from it. When the door shuts. It stops everything. The Poem crashes to a halt. And this is time to throw in something wild, like a obscure link, a jump in time and space.
Reminds of something I think Stephen King said about writing….something along the lines of ‘if you do not know what to do next, let a man with a gun come in’
——————-
a poverty stricken kitten
skips across the sprinkled streets, glitter litter
crisps the pavement, stone splits into doorway,
out whiffs a break beat as he enters it. Door shuts
with such finality it’s as if he never existed.
Never pressed a nozzle to colour walls,
or the rapper’s vocals never coloured bars…
The silence is blasphemous as the blues
played backwards, un-invented, trapped
in the fingernail of a field hand so straight-
jacketed, so stitched, he won’t twitch for shit,
and the unplayed guitar riff, like ghost graffiti,
reefs over his heart and dies.
tomorrow x
