I’ve heard a lot of slam poetry during my time at Kenyon. Okay, most of the time by accident, when I wandered into an open mic night and it just felt too rude to leave. As my knowledge and experience with this great art form has expanded, I have decided to create my own slam poetry. The best poetry comes from what you know the best, so my slam poetry will emulate the triumphs and tragedies of being a Kenyon student to the best of my ability. If you want to see these poems performed in their truest form, I will be screaming them in the backyard of Chilitos at its busiest hour. Please snap for me!
The Thrill Editors flex our rhyming muscles to bring you these, inspired by our endless love and respect for Kenyon College!
So, on Valentine’s Day, the day of ~l o v e~ and happiness and whatever the hell people who experience romantic attraction do that day, I sat down in New Side with Marc Delucchi and asked him a lot of semi-serious, semi-invasive questions. These are the results.
Last weekend, our writer Tyler Raso put dozens of Thrill headlines into a bot, and then forced the bot, against its and our will, to generate content for us. Every day this week, one article on the site will be one of the prompts the bot generated. These are our stories.
Peers, friends, lovers. How does one even begin to broach the subject of the market sandwich? How does one even look one in the eye and dare to love? I am at a loss, at a standstill. Where do I start? At the lettuce? The bread? The Thousand Island dressing? I must confess I’ve never felt this way about anything before. A love like this is a burden. It haunts me, consumes me, fills me with something dark and urgent, and, Reader, I am afraid.
Dear reader. I think so much. It gets uncomfortable in my head with all those thoughts taking up so much space. I put my thoughts in poems so my brain doesn’t get squished by the weight of childhood memories consisting of me holding a stick in various locations and reruns of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Poems are like little glass jars filled with pickled organs. And the organs are so pickled, they’re almost translucent. As Bryce Shivers and Lisa Eversman of Portlandia fame once said, “We can pickle that.” That’s just beautiful. I made a custom embroidered pillow on the internet which says “We can pickle that.” I didn’t buy it though. One day, the whole world will be pickled. You can just dump stuff in a poem and then forget all about it. And then get famous while people theorize about your sexuality.
Ode to the guy in the cow onesie:
Saw you ambling through Old-side,
Voluptuous, four-pronged cow titty
swaying to and fro…
Speckled beauty, pornstached visage,
Lasso me into your
sweet nothings into my
Those who complain about the walk up from the KAC to Peirce fail to recognize that physical labor is but a small price to pay for such a view.