Broken Ears Poetry Sauce

By
Case Blackwell

email:
woodsinthebear@gmail.com
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