Slam Poetry Showdown!
So, if this is all about being inspired, then the best place to clearly go is slam poetry. It is a kickass hybrid between performance and writing, and as such, serves as both a pretty dynamic and a pretty badass representation of creativity. Below are two different slam pieces, both radically different in tone, and their difference is meant to promote inspiration and represent the many different facets that slam represents. We at the Laurentian Magazine hope that by viewing this hybrid style you can think about new ways to combine different art forms you care about. Enjoy!
This first piece, by Alysia,is in a more serious tone, but it is rich with emotion and full of strong writing:
This second piece by Megan Thoma (a Providence, RI slam poet), while not quite as serious as the first, is downright hilarious and reflects the part of the slam that just wants to have a great time:
On the political ramification of anal sex and dinosaurs:
RAWR! I am a dinosaur. From the future! A time-traveling reptelic professor of secrets. Mystery absolver. Ancient enigma eraser. Raaauuuurggghhhh!
Here to lead you to enlightenment. And stop all this tabloid textbook nonsense.
Dinosaurs weren’t wiped out by a cosmic comet of fire. Our skin wasn’t fried. Our flesh didn’t melt. Our blood didn’t simmer until it turned to steam. That is ridiculous. It was the sex. The anal sex that did us in.
One day all the lady dinosaurs got mad at us and pulled
some Lysistrata crap, being righteous, refusing us, sexually.
But we were MEAN, ANGRY,FEROCIOUS, HUNGRY dinosaurs that would not be denied.
We were BEASTS! BIG SCARY BEASTS
that could not masturbate with such tiny arms
and heavy hands and lonely hearts.
So we made do. And it was good.
Triceratops learned to tiptoe. Stegosaurus to sneak. To get it hard, to slip it in. Velociraptors feigned fear, But it was all an act. We liked it.
The slippery, scaly goodness. 9 foot tails To yank, to bite, to strangle yourself with.
Dusk in the swamp was a rumbling choir of deep moans and roars. Mud slipped over scales, the tipping and tumbling of ferocious bodies: lightheaded and falling into seismic baaaboooom swamp cannonballs. The pumping. The speed. The force. The claws. The last gigantic RAAAAWWWRRRRR that shakes up from your gut, through your heart as you cum and cum and cum until your lover explodes, pupils shot, exhausted and sedated.
Dinocock melted. Bodies relaxed, and thick hot swamp mud slowly seeped up, swallowing Every heroic beast, too quiet in happy exhale to fight back.
The women got lonely and stubborn, followed us in, annoyed at their own suicides.
And so it goes. No more dinosaurs. Until now. In the future.
In the future, they breed us. Make us nice and fat. Put our still breathing bodies into airplane hanger pressure cookers until out brains explode into an oily mist. I hear it is cool to watch.
And that is why I am here, tonight: to warn you as your election approaches.
Vote democrat and anal sex will win, wipe you all out with its tight, hot goodness.
Vote republican and you’ll need oil so badly, the scientists will have to bring dinosaurs back. Which is cool.
So good luck election day and the rest of eternity.
Because if you make your political decisions based on what some li’l ol’ dinosaur from the future says— you deserve exactly what you get.