In English...
Spoken Word and The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel Second Floor anthology invite you to a poetry reading from the anthology followed by an open mic on the theme of Eros, desire, sex & sensuality.
Monday, May 19th 8pm downstairs at the Highlander, 8, rue de Nevers, (southwest of Pont Neuf) Métro Saint Michel ou Pont Neuf.
En français...
Spoken Word et l'anthologie ''The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel Second Floor'' vous invitent au soirée de poésie commençant par un lecture de textes de l'anthologie par les poètes eux-mêmes, en anglais, suivi par un scène ouvert sur le thème de Éros, désir, sexe et sensualité.
Lundi, 19 mai 20h au cave à The Highlander, 8, rue de Nevers, Métro Saint Michel ou Pont Neuf.
No Tell Motel - Monday/lundi 19th May
Report from 23rd April
Photos: Colin, Thérèse, Joy... crazy guy & poet (help me out - identify yourselves)
Anne gave us Kabul. Charlie had seen it all before, a case of Déjà Vu. Giémo took us to meet La Ville Amante, à la fois proche et absente and introduced us to Denise, the richest SDF in Paris. Didier invoked Alfred de Mussy. Thérèse had lunch at the McDo de Bobigny (qui vous dit merci) and rescued a crab in destin de crabbe. Colin wasn't there, he was in Seville. Bex begged to differ, arguing people are everything, it's never the place. Donald headed off drunkenly to The Crimson City of the North. Conor gave him increasingly frantic misdirections - just drive through the hospital and up the traffic lights. Alex' ghosts were on a countdown to death. Robert Teetsov sang and Chris Fowle was filled with foreboding. An anglicized Colin took the Last train to Barnsley. Marco Polo and Ghenghis Khan showed up, discoverer and collector of Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities. Erica sang form the point of view of Achilles, all dipped in glory except for the heel. Alexa left on the underground train, observing that the metroline you take is obviously the one that is going to fuck up most. Charlie got up shot. Ben Slatky did Shaunessey's Over the Moon. Conor threw canibal ink into the night sky. And I slowly turned 37.
Lots more people did stuff, too numerous to mention. And there were so many people they were backed up the stairs in the first half.
Deadlined...
105 rue Amelot
75011, Paris
Entree libre/ Free!
Metro Saint Sebastien Froissart
The Great Lurch Forward...
The Great Lurch Forward... photos 1
Seldon, Pauline, Raskolnikov, the Eiffel Tower, Neil, and Raskolnikov again, escaped from a Dostoyevski novel...
Slough by John Betjeman
I grew up near Slough and Maidenhead. Even The Lonely Planet's guidebook to England tells you "Don't go there." I'm with Betjeman. Note he wrote this just prior to World War Two.
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town --
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week for half-a-crown
For twenty years,
And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears,
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead
And talk of sports and makes of cars
In various bogus Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.



