On the latest episode of What Pisses Rich Off Today:
Can I get a shout-out for these quasi-neo-soul fakeass incense and headwrap-wearing wannabe poets who call themselves "spoken word artists" without having a clue about poetry, tradition, or poetic tradition?
Similar raspberries to the failed emcees who pass themselves off as "spittin' dat hot fyah" when all they really do is make me want to spit in their general direction.
Big fuck-alls as well to the screaming Charles Bukowski disciples who think they're living in the haze of bohemian rhapsody because they're drinking club soda at the same bar as Jack Kerouac.
And a hot poker up the ass to these whiney, shouting, brick-dumb young slam whores who think it's cool to tour the world on a shoestring budget and not write any poems.
Hey, "Spoken Word artists." Some of us poets actually have to fucking WORK for a living. Stop trying to be someone you're not, and pick up a fucking book.