Verbal ammunition and the art of choosing your moment

Gift sat at Shivava and waited his turn. In his left hand his crumpled poem grew moist. In his right, his second Laurentina was already flat and warm. He now faced the dilemma of whether to have another drink, to stop for a while or to nurse the beer dregs until his turn came.
It was quite a poser. If he had another Laurentina, he risked being too drunk to remember his poem, or he could stuff up the delivery, slur his words or get the rhythm wrong.
If he stopped drinking he’d soon start becoming drowsy. And it could be another hour before his turn came. A guy needs something to do while he sits and listens to the same people do the same poems they’ve done every week for the last six months.
It seemed like the right thing to do, but if he nursed the dregs, he’d be in a sour mood by the time he got up to do his slam. No. Life was too short to drink flat beer. He waved his Laurentina at the nearest waitress and resigned himself to a warm, happy and slightly risky delivery.
In the meantime Ayob did his one about being from Eldorado Park. “I’m a Lokshinhead. I speak words that raise the dead.” Gift had to admit it was a catchy riff, and the audience wasn’t shy to chant along either. “I’m a Lokshinhead. I speak words that raise the dead.”
That was obviously one of the advantages of doing the same bit every week – you get audience participation.
And Ayob knew Lokshinhead backwards. He’d be able to recite that sucker perfectly after ten beers, let alone three. The guy probably didn’t drink, though.
Crumbs, that guy must get bored, mused Gift. Sitting in a pub every week, waiting to repeat the same poem.
At least Gift had a new poem. He unfolded his increasingly manky piece of foolscap, had a sip of Laurentina and went through the piece one more time.

Verbal Ammunition

I need some ammunition I can hide behind.
Like a guitar. Like a bass. Like a lyrical line.
A man needs a mission he can hide behind.
A microphone is no defence, you know?
All a piece of paper does is make me more tense
Conductors get batons and musical stands and
A song the people know and think they understand.
So the only way for me to try to cover my hide
Is to say something that you’ll remember me by.
A poem, a slam, some rambling rhyme.
That kinda makes you feel you might be reading my mind
So this is it then, this is the line. The verbal ammunition you’ll remember me by.
So forget the verses and forget the time, but please don’t forget to remember the rhyme
Without it I’m naked, unarmed and sublime and without the power of verse by my side.
So this is it then, this is the line. The verbal ammunition you’ll remember me by.
So forget the verses and forget the time, but please don’t forget to remember the rhyme
I got the pow-pow-pow-power of verse by my side.
The pow-pow-pow-power of verse by my side…


And then he’d repeat that line a couple of times. That would be the hook. And he’d throw a couple of boxing combinations when he was saying, “Pow-pow-pow-power”.
Hmm. He folded the paper and cleared his throat. It was still a couple of slots before his turn. He had a last Laurentina.
Then some African goddess in a headscarf, whom he’d never seen before, got up and rocked the place to the foundations.
Her bit began: “Between my thighs lies my Avalon…”
And Gift chuckled. A bit too loud. And lasciviously. Heads turned.
Unfortunately it turned out not to be a funny poem. So he ended up looking like a cunt for laughing at the beginning. Still, the whole of Shivava was standing and hooting by the end of her bit. Woo-hoo.
Gift felt like the tide had turned, like he’d missed his opportunity. He decided he wouldn’t be performing tonight. It just didn’t feel right.
So he finished that last Laurentina and headed home.
There he would carefully unfold his sole copy of Verbal Ammunition and paste it into his Croxley hardcover book.
Alongside the 20-odd other items of slam poetry he had never performed.
He read through it one last time. “Pow-pow-pow-power of verse by my side.”
It was one of his better ones.