The Birth Of Modern Day Street Poetry

The Birth of Modern Day Street Poetry

The streets can’t sing
It’s vocal chords are choked out by the traffic going in, and out of the area,
Littering is its birthmark yet the diarrhoea of the passerby
Leaving cigarette butts and expecting another guy to wipe the seat clean
And perhaps at the same time as a by-the-way kinda thing
Empty the overflowing rubbish bin at the side of the road
Now to hit a high note, the streets use a falsetto

The streets still can’t sing
Sore throat from the fumes of machines, culminating in the spits on the sidewalk
Stepped on by a hundred rushing things, robots marching slowly to their charging ports so that in the morning they can fix on dull faces and stick to their assigned slots at work

They’d rather have a backache than a heartbreak
Hunched over a computer keyboard with bits of your lunch stuck in it
Your homemade lemonade was the only thing in your life you’ve ever learn to create
It sits behind your computer screen, a tinted Nalgene bottle your colleagues have never ever seen
They are, after all, rats, stuck in a race for machines
How can the streets sing?
How can it dance when these brains on legs only want to advance backwards
Thinking that ignorance adequately addresses the issues of our time?

Thinking that there is no privilege is the new privilege.
Thinking that there is no racism is the new racism.

Firearms shoot less venom than your words
There is no toxin in nuclear warheads if you would just compare to the war you perceive inside your own head
Your prejudice is poison
But don’t educate that no hate exists, in fact, open up the floor for the debate
Extend your weary hand past your own bubble of worries and anxieties for your own life
And start acknowledging that your neighbour may actually be alive in this broken world too
So if you, sir, would just glue your lips together and flatten out a smile
You could brighten the world today, even just for awhile

No more nationality or irrationally
No contention between races in court cases
No more burning of your brand New Balance racers
Godly people isolate themselves not on mountains, for they are,
Busy on the streets of Calcutta
They are the people of Mandela, preoccupied with giving a voice to the streets
They spent more time out there, in peaceful warfare, trying to change things for the welfare of the common people even if it means being locked up behind bars
For they are in physical jail cells
But yours is mental and your cowardice shows itself in an Anonymous mask

Thus, the streets picked the lowest art form to express its needs
Poetry was born under the lamp post and started to breed
In stagnant water and between the earphones of a new generation of kids
Seldom heard on radio stations but often hid under the newspapers of the homeless hospital patient with no way to make ends meet – except to sell tissue on these streets
And his silence is the tune
Amidst the violence of city sounds,
His song is immune and invulnerable to attack
He is more content with scraps than you are with your full meal, how does that make you feel?

Close to 11 and students in uniform still not home yet
Still stuck in that middle income bracket
Still not able to own different coloured jackets
Still spending baby food money on cigarette packets

The song of the streets is fuelled by the desire of the minority
It is the burning fire for the concerns over mediocrity
Let your fist be pitchforks
And your new thoughts and dreams be the weapon of choice
Our numbers will be the megaphone making the loudest noise
Stand up! And let the streets sing in one voice

As we chant:

Thinking that there is no privilege is the new privilege.
Thinking that this no racism is the new racism.



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