~Poetry Slam~ Emmett's Brainchild

[Damari]

Damari enters the Café and nods to Kemp, motioning to Ava to come over. When her two staff were looking at her attentively, well Ava was attentive, Kemp was wiping down the bar close, which was his equivalent of hanging on your every word.

There’s going to be a poetry slam here. I’m not organising it and I’m probably not going to be here for the most of it, but you two are. Find some dude called Emmett if you have any problems.”

Stopping Ava’s question with the raising of one hand she continues.

“Don’t ask me what he looks like because I don’t know. Never met the dude. Now I suggest that the poetry slam format is kept pretty basic. Get up on stage, do your thing. Get off the stage. But who knows what this guy is preparing. But try to keep it going so we don’t have vampires sitting in the café when the sun comes up then turning to dust. Not a good look for our establishment.”

“Now, when you see Emmett may I suggest you encourage him to use the “Don’t wait around for anyone to introduce your ass, there’s no sign up, have the guts to rip into it and keep going. If someone is taking too long lingering up on the stage after their poem is done, push em off, tell them its your turn and then have at your bad self.” Format so the thing moves fast and doesn’t have to wait on some slow ass MC to get off his duff to introduce the next one and allows for those who come just to get up and do it themselves.”

Damari wasn’t sure if this Emmett person was up to the challenge of organising vampires on this scale. Even as much experience as she had making sure vampires did shit and did it in a timely manner there were invariably a few that dragged their feet, were intractable or thought the world revolved on their time clock (which granted she was a member of the later). It paid to ensure the stubborn bastards were given clear and decisive guidelines to follow or they’d be in that café forever spouting poetry one painful verse at a time.

“Good luck with the event just remember we don’t want to sit here all night waiting for them to get their acts together. So try to keep it moving.”

With that Damari glided away and up to the second floor apartment and delved into the astronomically well stocked wardrobe within. She was good with issue orders and then pissing off. She rather assumed Ava and Kemp did their own thing despite what she told them and it didn’t much matter to her if they did as long, in her presence, they put on a good show of it.

Packing up some belongings she then got the hell of dodge. If there was trouble Ava would contact her, but for this event Damari wasn’t going to be within ten feet of it and with a wave as she passed through the café on her way out she made her way to the Cottage.

And she was gone...

[Emmett]

Emmett bounces into the cafe, beaming brightly and lugging a large pink sack over her back. Her excitement for this event is obvious all over her face. The girl carries a folding metal chair under her right arm. She sets it up in front of the stage and eyes it. It is rather unimpressive, all dented and covered with various sparkly stickers, but she evidently likes it enough to carry it around with her.

The girl nods at the cafe's two staff members and shuffles a bit. "You don't mind if I arrange the chairs into sort of an...audience, do you?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, instead starting to pull the chairs into rows facing the stage. The girl gasps excitedly all of a sudden and holds up a finger. "Be right back!" she declares, as if anyone within earshot really cares. She soon runs back in with a black wooden chair underneath her arm that one could only assume she'd left outside earlier.

She clambers onto the stage and sets the chair in the middle of it. She doubts that any of the performers will want it, but she knows that a chair is a standard provision for a monologue, so she decides that it might as well be offered to the poetry slam participants, as well. They can perform with or without it; it won't trouble her either way.

She hoists her bag over her shoulder and sets it on the floor. She then commences withdrawing parts of a mic stand from within it. After the mic stand has been set up, she pulls a microphone from the bag and sets it in the stand. She gives it a quick check to make sure the batteries are fresh. When she is satisfied, the girl reaches back into her bag and withdraws a roll of tape and a piece of poster board. The poster is white with black lettering. Her original had been pink and glitter, and it was only after much debate that she discarded it. The girl moves to the wall of the cafe and tapes the sign to it. After a few moments, she steps back to admire her work.

Poetry Slam

it says, in large, careful letters. Emmett smiles proudly and drops into her chair. "Perfect!" she chirps at no one in particular.

((OOC note: please read the information thread about the slam before posting in this thread. Thanks!))

[Ava]

Ava slowly flicked a long strand of her obviously dyed cobalt hair behind her ear and eyed the female vampire as she bobbed along and did exactly as she wanted to do in the cafe. Moving chairs and sliding them into a facsimile of an audience setting.

Tilting her head to the side she leans over the bar, puts her diminutive hand over that of her silent partner and adds sotte voce.

"I thought Damari said Emmett was a dude?"

She gave Kemp a little smirk and raised eyebrow, choosing to express her amusement silently, the smile playing peekaboo behind her eye covering swathe of bright blue tresses.

Kemp shrugged, as Kemp was wont to do, choosing as he predictably did, to encompass a whole conversation of scorn into one economical movement.

Shaking her head Ava went back to serve what few human customers there were, keeping her eye on the peppy blonde, as she moved chairs, brought in her own.

Ava could tell it was going to be a long night.

[Krimzen]

Chuckling under her breath, Krimzen slid into the Cafe and glanced around. "This has Emmett written all over it," the pink haired vampiress muttered, shaking her head slowly. With a sigh of sorts, she headed towards the stage, a small leather bound journal in her hand. Usually, she didn't do this sort of thing, having put her donation in and resort to the shadows, but after all the work Emmett had put into this... She figured she might as well. Maybe, if she was quick enough, she could get in and out before too big of a crowd showed up. Glancing around, she took note of the employees, as well as everyone else, before clearing her throat. "Emmy, darling. You owe me for this," she whispered, winking at her overly joyed soon-to be sibling. Flipped through the pages of her journal, she finally settled on the piece she had written long ago, and had selected just for this event. She knew it by heart, but she kept the journal tight in her gloved hands for comfort. Quietly, she introduced herself, before glancing up at the small gathering of people, and beginning to recite, her tone soft and filled with anger, amethyst eyes seeming to glow as she spoke in low tones, but not low enough so the others couldn't hear.


"Reckoning"

A vicious storm is brewing,

Deep within my veins,

Have I come to slaughter you?

Can you feel the rain?

Wishing you were buried,

Deep beneath my Earth,

Welcome to a stage of Hell,

Welcome to my Turf,

Unleashing what was locked away,

Dare to say you're sorry?

Deep wounds forged by decay,

Slipping through my grasp,

Holding, waiting to betray,

A vicious storm is brewing,

Deep within my veins,

A wild force of perilous rapture,

Dare you reckon with a force of nature?


Once she had finished, Krimzen closed the book and stood slowly. With a smile of pure malice to the crowd, she quickly took a step off the stage and headed for one of the chairs in the shadows, her booted feet making no noise as she stepped gracefully across the floor.

[Do Not PM this Account.]

Ah, the Poetry Slam. Coqui had been around when Zuri had pitched the idea, and though it had come to fruition at the hands of another individual, she was just as interested now as she'd been back then. Not that she imagined herself any kind of rogue genius poet, but.. eh. It was fun. It was something to do, and a way to get to know people with similar interests, as well as to understand their internal thoughts. She knew someone eventually would get up on the small 'stage' that'd been put together and recite a limerick. She'd even considered it, though at the end of shuffling through scribbled Post-It notes in her office, she'd decided against it in favor of some more serious, interesting poems.

Honestly, Coquette had barely written since her induction to the City three years ago. In fact, most anything she had that would have been of any use at all was from her high school days, where she'd rushed rhymes, pushed her emo ramblings into a notebook and tried to make a perfect cookie-cutter poem. However.. she'd found one, one that she'd created more recently, that truly stuck out in her head. Medusa.

She'd set the crumpled poem aside with the intention of reading it. Something more solid, and honest. And current. Currency was a hot topic in poetry, when people diverted from it, they seemed less relate-able and perhaps even less honest. It had taken a few days to prepare with the knowledge of the September 1st deadline, but eventually Coquette had come up with something that she could at least be proud of were she to perform it for her peers.

Cafe Damari was easy to find considering the Bite corner she'd worked with Damari to install over the last several months. Ava and Kemp were easy to spot, and the girl nodded and waved to each with a friendly smile, though she didn't bother trying to approach them for coffee or conversation. They seemed busy, and to be honest, Coquette didn't really know what to do with the two workers who catered to Damari's wishes. Damari's wishes alone were a dilemma; the girl wasn't interested in getting to know the people who carried them out, or she might end up 'sleeping with the fishes' or something equally disturbing.

As she approached the part of the cafe that had been set up for the poetry slam, Krimzen was on the stage performing her piece. The piece was good. Short, but most pieces were in the long scheme of things. For slams, you didn't want to recite anything too long in fear of losing your audience. It came off a bit robotic, however, recited stiffly without much movement or inflection. Krim had more than that. Sighing some, the girl tilted her head and waited for Krimzen to finish, interpreting the meaning of the poem in her head and guaging its concept. It was a nice poem. It had powerful language. When she'd smiled at the small crowd that had gathered and left the stage, Coquette took that as a cue that the microphone was open and she could start her set of poems as her turn.

She'd gone with the typical 'beatnik' appearance, solid black, with a jauntily tipped beret, a bit of a scenic irony considering her normal attire. Silver jewelry graced her wrist, throat, and ears, simple and streamlined so as not to take away from her poetry and its meaning. She didn't -want- people to interpret the meaning of the poem. What she'd wanted going into this was for the audience and the judges to absorb the emotion she'd felt when she'd written this scant months ago, to be aware of her state of mind and the way she'd felt so betrayed, dumbfounded, doubtful, and raging, all in one. She'd hoped the poem would reflect that, and the way she intended to perform it.

Stepping to the microphone, Coquette checked the switch to make sure that the instrument was powered, and settled her lips close to the device. Her voice was low, calm, husky as an introduction, smooth and deliberate when it came from her lips, reflected back in the monitors to her ears.

“Medusa.”

The girl's body contorted and stiffened, then swelled into a soft, fluid jerking of her shoulders and torso as she spoke, her voice becoming more animated and tone swelling into something more angered, more frustrated, with the start of the poem. It was if she were snapping at the audience, her body twitching through the end of each line and following through fluidly into the next, eyes glinting with the assorted emotions that had once fueled her through the piece. It was if she were back in that moment and speaking to her subject, informing him of this gorgon he'd been entranced by and begging him, through the use of anger and accusations, to see the truth and change his mind. To see beyond the mask of irritability and into the self-consciousness, the honest layer that lay beneath and asked him to back away from danger. It was both a gesture of fragility and strength, as Coquette began her poem.

“I forgot to tell you she's a user
With a face like Helen
And the eyes of Medusa
And you could choose her, which would make more sense
Than to sit, and fidgit in the awkward silence
And look at her stony eyes that give you butterflies
She's got alibis every time you can't find her
Ask her whose pillowcases are stained with her eyeliner
If you dare, or do you care
When you run your fingers through her thick long hair
Do you look for ten fine trails of the men who made it there before you?”

Her lips curled in apparent disgust of this 'Medusa', face contorted into a sneer that was undirected to anyone in particular. The beast was long gone, but the inspiration had never wavered. Her voice swelled in hatred, in rage, in disgust, and also manipulated itself into the picture of distinct hurt, roughening into a gravelled pain as she continued the end of the poem.

“I abhore you and your weakness
For that salty, sticky sweetness”

And then.. she paused. The aforementioned crumpled paper dropping from her fingertips and fluttering to the floor, un-noticed in the arch of the moment. The last line was uttered just barely into the microphone, Coquette's voice having seemingly calmed to a childlike whisper, a broken and hopeless utterance of the last sixteen words. Her eyes glittered, then went blank, as if resigned to complete the poem as she'd been resigned to give up the argument.

“But if that's the way you want it, then I guess that I don't mean this...”

Pursing her lips, Coquette's eyes cleared and once more registered the small audience, the judges, and their eyes on her. Then, the small, dreadlocked creature broke into a wide smile and dipped into a swooping, dramatic bow, which unfortunately included her beret-clad head knocking against the microphone into a cacophony of feedback and giggles. Straightening and grappling for the stand in order to keep it upright, the pygmy flashed a sheepish grin and flushed pink, murmuring her thank yous into the device before exiting stage left, toward the coffee bar. She felt good. It was time for some caffeine and confidence, and to watch the rest of the show.

[The Flower]

Sake skips in and blinks. She grins. "Emmy, doll. I'mma be laughed at! But because you said I should, here's my go." Sake bounced up to the stage and brought one leg up behind her back to twirl to face the "crowd" or lack there of, whichever it was. She cleared her throat and tried to make her voice loud as possibly, eyes focued intently on a small paper she grasped tightly in her fingers.

If this Night Didn't Last

If this night didn't last
And our love was in the past
Would you feel this ache?
Would you know you took every part of my existance?
Would you know how badly my heart would break?
If this night didn't last
And I was to be cast aside
How would I survive with you gone?
How would I keep from crying, when I'm not really all that strong?
How could you keep me from falling apart, when you caused it all from the start?
If this night didn't last
I'd still love you simply because you're my other half
Is it true?
Has the day started anew?
It has.
And I'm still here with you.
You hold my heart,
You've held it from the very start
I'll trust you to not break it apart.


She canted her head, in thought to herself of how it sounded, lovey dovey wasn't her best poetry. The girl grinned, deciding to take it a bit darker than her first poem

Eternally Damned

I wish the sun would rise and chase away all my fears,
I wish the sun would rise and show me all I hold dear,
Alas the sun is not rising,
And I cannot see.
For this is the fate, that the lord in heaven above graced me.
It’s pitch black now,
And I cry in vain.
Well guess what o’ holy lord,
I’ll never again, utter your name.
You set me free from that sugar coated world of yours by not hearing my plea.
I now have fangs with which to kill all your followers with glee.
It’s pitch black now,
But I can still see.
Aren’t you so happy?
You made me what I am.
I am the eternally damned.

Sake smiled, chirpily and skipped off stage, rather happy with herself.

[SinisterGrin:]

Grin felt vomitous. He didn't know if he really wanted to do this. He wrote poetry. What on earth kind of a hobby was that for a man? Even if it was a hidden hobby? He never skipped up to people and asked 'Hey, wanna hear my latest work?' or shoved his tattered book of poems in another's face and told them to start reading and then tell him what they thought. No. This would be the first time that he made any type of skill known... if he did, indeed, have any type of skill. Which was doubtful.

He almost feared getting up on the stage after the little female with the pink hair had gone.

He didn't want them to know that somewhere within himself, he housed this emotion--reviled above alll others. This love.

The man shakily got up from where he'd been sitting, smiled widely at the pink-haired woman, and took a breath as his boots scriffed toward the stage.

He stared out at the gathered crowd. Crumpled paper whispered in his hand as he unfolded it and the man bent over so that his mouth was close to the microphone. In a weak and thoughtful voice, he began to speak...

"And right now, you are my moment's muse.
All of the fraction of this second...
Is consumed...
With you.
[Enlightening.]
Then, your stimulation is swept away
On blue-gray streams of conciousness.
Your moment of melancholy inpiration, muse,
Drowns beneath the black-ink ocean
Of my unconscious.
The flutter of your eye goes unnoticed
As liquid sadness pools in the corner
Of a sky-blue orb.
(A magic ball that fortells the future,
Whispering of tragic events to come.)
Your delicate 'brow,
In its furrow,
Is a question of what comes next.
Long lashes give brief close
And open once more.
You, muse, are wide-eyed with wonder
At the world and its violence.
This warring of nations amazes your fragile heart.
[These nations are not just landmasses
To be won.
These nations are people.
These deaths are many.]
You want to be loved.
So bad.
It kills you.
Do I ask my questions
Blatantly?
And notice your look of 'please don't
Back me into
A corner'?
Your look of 'who? me?
Are you talking to me?'
Your look of worry at being put
On the spot?
Did you even notice that I was watching?
A hint of confusion in storm-cloud gray orbs.
[Crystal balls that fortell the future,
The fog inside rolling and whispering of
Tragedy to come.]
Your lips pout as if you
Were the world having been
Hit by some nuclear bomb.
Your surface is shaken by the impact
And you are able to do nothing
But take the blows.
[Hopeless, helpless.]
My melancholy muse.
You beautiful blue planet
Covered in confusion.
My muse.
You'll sob on my shoulder.
And right after right now...
The inspiration will slip away on
Blue-gray streams of consciousness
And drown in the
Black-ink ocean
Of my unconcious.
This would have been a drunk-dial romance
And never would've worked out
Anyway."

He stood up straight, flipped the paper over and cleared his throat. He spoke louder, this time, "I've got another." He began, again, with more force and a bubbling-type of anger.

"Vulgar, grotesque, and obscene.
A cigarette smoking guitar hero queen.
A drop them-dead-where-they-stand
Loyal right hand
Of the mob scene.
Spit and curse,
Verse by verse,
Actions unrehearsed
And gorgeous
Eyes that gleam
With sunshine beams
And all other souls are poor, just…
Waiting for the next big thing
On the television screen.
Yeah, yeah,
You’re the next big thing,
Don’t you know it?
Walk with your shoulders
Don’t swing those hips.
Never use lipstick on already-pink lips.
It’s eyeliner, mascara, and cheap chapstick.
They’ll love you.
No fancy shoes upon those feet,
Just hood enough to bob to the beat.
You’re striking like lightening.
Your aura is frightening.
Show-biz and sight-seeing.
And angelic being.
Distinctively distinct.
Distinguishable and distinguished.
A species almost extinct,
But unable to be extinguished.

The life of the party and the departed.
The dead bang their heads
Wherever the party gets started.
In your presence the crowds, like seas, are parted.
Go ahead and bang that head along
With every pure Led and Grateful Dead song.
But you can never see the stars
On Hollywood boulevard
Or watch them glow at the show in the city.
The streetlamps chase away the star gazer’s daze
And replace the real with the fake.
So shake, shake, shake.
Quake, quake, quake.
And let the words roll off in the lake
Of lies that pools at your shoes.
The next bit thing?
Yeah, that’s you.
Sign your name on skin and paper.
The next big thing, the next dream-shaper.
Phantoms in the alley.
Midnight rallies and capers.
Your new best friends are bottom scrapers and muckraker
Journalists…
With paper fists.
That will knock you dead where you stand…
Or choke you with newspaper tabloid hands.
So get ready to be
That next big thing
Which is all over the TV screens.
Get ready to be
So heinous you’re famous
And set down the style
That will brainwash and stain us.
Get ready to be
The Sunday matinee
And the poster-child for the USA.
And the name that everyone knows how to say.
And inspiration for the massives, hey.

You’re a classic.

Your style and poise
Your guitar noise
Will be mocked by five million decoys…

Of you.

Your hates and your joys,
Just like the Trojan’s troy,
Won’t be yours for long.
Your stronghold isn’t so strong.
Prepare to lead a throng…
Of little yous in British boy suits
Who think they’re cute.
They can pass as you.
And they will try it, too.
You won’t be yours for too long.
So get ready, you grotesque, morose, glamor.
They’re all just waiting to be enamored.
Your originality’s the nail.
They are the hammer.
Go ahead and be the next big jesus…
For a pop culture begging you to save us.
Need it like speed,
It’s pure and uncut you.
They’ll snort you up their noses
And smoke you like zoot.

So get ready to be the next big thing
All inside their magazines
And CD playing machines.
You’ll be just another video on their TV screen.

Let’s hear you scream, baby."

After he was finished, the man shoved the paper down into his pocket without folding it and skittered of the stage.

[Archontohs]

Archontohs had read about this poetry slam and even knew he was going to witness it. He loved literature of all kinds, even if no one really knew. Yet the closer and closer it came time the more he thought about bringing about his own performance. Not for the prize, he could care less about that, but so that his own words could come alive. It would be his greatest performance. And so he set off. Walking always had a thing about it, being there with everything. Seeing, hearing, and being with it all. Quite naturally, he lost himself as he walked, his feet knowing it seemed where to go.

Upon the arrival of the Cafe Damari, it was filled with beings. Listening to one after another, inspiring him more and more. If not before, he was definately sure now was the time. As SinisterGrin gave a long winded, yet good performance he saw the stage empty and he made his move. The chair sitting there as if to taunt those who would draw near. How odd he would be nervous as he stood there looking out at everyone, but it was his time.

As he stood there, his cloak seemed to cover his entire being. It was humorous to him how he must look like a shadow upon the stage. He knew there had to be two, so his words could hopefully touch those out there. And so with his usual whisper that echoed outwards he began, "The Circle"

"Life..." There he gave a pause as if for dramatic tension as he pulled the microphone off its stand and towards him, "is like a game of dice." He began to pace along the stage, not out of nervousness, but so that he could see every reaction of the beings that were present for this.

"In the end you pay the ultimate price.
For those you love for those you hate.
They just put you in a wooden crate."

He drew back farther away from the crowd and stopped his pacing, this was the time to stress over what would come.

"Six feet under you will go.
Down the River Styx you'll flow.
Like a nonstopping ride.
Tilting and turning you lose your pride.

Ongoing and ongoing until you're pure.
That is all but the cure.
For death is unstopping it will keep on.
All night long, until the break of dawn."

It was this point he brought his form out towards the audience again. This time he moved as close as the stage itself would allow him.

"For in the morning light.
Everything is so bright.
As it comes, so does life.
The Circle is complete."

He was done, yet he was not done. As he turned around words began to spring once more. The very same whisper as before, yet different. A whisper that would travel to high notes and to low notes as if from someone deranged, "In Death's Hands." This time there would be no extra for the words already came to life to him as he merely stood there thinking about them. It was as he thought it would be, his greatest performance.

"The battle between life and death.
Good and evil at their best.
The smell of the Reaper's deadly breath.
Challenging the soul to a horrible test.

What lies upon this unending road?
Littering with pain with no light to guide.
Death is following you on your trode.
There's nowhere to run and you can't hide!

He is following your every step.
Closer and closer He will get.
Until He has you in His grasp.
He takes your life with no regret.

The way of the wicked is all the same.
He has nothing to lose and all to gain.
This is your life, but it's His game.
It's how He gets life, for Him to sustain."

And that was that, it was all he could do. If there was inspiration to be brought to them, hopefully he had done so. So he placed the microphone back on its stand, gave a bow, and exited the stage. He lingered around to watch the rest to do their best. It would be an interesting show after all.

(Sorry, the italics didn't work right the first time.)

[aristeen]

*Sitting at the Cafe Damari, I watched and listened, as one by one, very talented vampyres read their creations. Being the slightly shy type that I am, I honestly didn't think I'd be able to muster up the nerve to stand or even sit in front of everyone, let alone read my writings to them.

Yet, as I viewed Archontohs and his way of delivering his work, I couldn't help but be inspired.

So, ever so carefully, I made my way up on the stage, took hold of the mic and then progressed back down to walk amongst the other patrons.

In a soft, gruff voice I announce the title of my piece.*

"Prisoner"

*I peek out from under the hood of my cloak as I pass by this vampyre or that one. Giving each one a sly little smile. Then I resume.*

"Like a child hiding under its covers at night
Fleeing from the horrible fright
That lays dormant under its bed during the day

I cower from the suns' rays so bright
Cringing at the horrible sight
The pain and agony that comes from the suns ray

We are the monsters under the moonlight
Waking at the break of twilight
Readying ourselves for foreplay

Frightening children and adults outright
We take great pleasure when we smite
And leave their bodies to decay

When the moon rises full at midnight
That is when our powers ignite
To begin our grand display

Which to our wondrous delight
And our clothing skintight
We chance upon a traveling buffet

But alas, as night gives way to sunlight
We are prisoners in flight
Fleeing for the umbrae"

*Making my way back up on stage, I place the mic back in it's cradle. Not knowing what was going to come out of mouth when I first came in, I never realized I could actually rhyme on the spot. I shrug then make my way back out of the cafe for a nice evenings hunt, before the sun once again arose and imprisoned me in my catacomb.*



*Modified punctuation*

[Emmett]

Emmett grins very brightly, clearing the microphone stand and the stool from the stage. She returns the chairs to their previous positions and packs her things back into her back. The girl very carefully removes the poster from the wall.
The tiny female glances about the room with a nod and a smile. "Good job, everyone. The winner will be announced in the paper." With this, she takes her folding chair and walks off.
((The slam is CLOSED. The winners have been decided and posted in the Off Topic section. Thanks to everyone who entered!))