there was an all-female poetry slam happening at the orchard library this afternoon while i was settling down with cappuccino and paperback -- it turns out that this is similar in all respects to a normal poetry slam except that

(a) one is obliged to use the word "vagina" and/or "clitoris" once each poem and
(b) at least one reference to suicide during the course of your reading is an absolute must

seriously, though, it was a little disturbing how angry most of these people's stuff was, all "fuck the establishment" and "let's go get high" and "what the hell am i doing here anyway?". the particular problem with angst-ridden locally-written verse (aside from the fact that it's, well, cliched), is that even on the off-chance the poet actually has experienced something to warrant their anguish no one is going to believe them. the ready set of images from american pulp fiction that one can call upon - smoldering cigarette butts, stale black coffee, shiners behind sunglasses - make it so easy nowadays to portray yourself as the struggling abused artist that even the real mccoys have to work to get their cred, never mind ntu students here.


it's unfortunate. if the poetry isn't great you should minimally believe the sentiment, but even that's a stretch in this lousy place. and i do kind of feel for them; it's almost like i wish they really did have an opportunity to suffer, so that even with all the wrong words, they still might be able to say something genuine and right.