Apologies to any errors or incompleteness in this, I just can't read my scribbled notes.
We wound down to a few new songs from Erica and headed for the last metros.
Cabaret Populaire - a good atmosphere, cheap beer & crepes. Should also be less hot next time as the air conditioning system should be switched on sooner.
Be back there, 9.30 Monday 20th October from 9.30... theme (optional - off topic stuff welcome) is Apocalypse.
More of Dana's stuff here:
And I finally created my own spoken word myspace:
at which you can listen to 6 poems, but not these 2:
The 2 a.m. high
This is the 2 a.m. high
when the world is strange
mind fireworking
too luminous with ideas to sleep
afterhours, afteryears
cramped-up in your head
suddenly you’re let out
you’re taking a walk across the grounds
a crazy escaped from the long-stay ward
all electric skin & fire-in-the-head
the cool wet grass under your feet
your hospital pyjamas flapping in the wind
eyes bulging with Now
hands flexing
to caress or strangle
the lover left behind on the bed
you know how it is
(they’ll keep)
while you live the 2 a.m. high
stalk the room
when the world is strange
mind fireworking
too luminous with ideas to sleep
afterhours, afteryears
cramped-up in your head
suddenly you’re let out
you’re taking a walk across the grounds
a crazy escaped from the long-stay ward
all electric skin & fire-in-the-head
the cool wet grass under your feet
your hospital pyjamas flapping in the wind
eyes bulging with Now
hands flexing
to caress or strangle
the lover left behind on the bed
you know how it is
(they’ll keep)
while you live the 2 a.m. high
stalk the room
touch the chill of the night through the unshut glass
& the house floods with the dark words and images pouring
out of you like tea through a colander
after the what-are-you-gonna-do-now,
that pressure-cooker prison
when the days were dull as dishwater
and you, closed up, in the motorway café of your soul
to not see how dismal the world was
that was then, this
is how
you’ve learned the location of joy
discovered that that half-dodged despair was not the final Revelation
because this is the 2 a m high, and you
you can tightrope-walk between worlds
side-step time
light the blue touch paper to your life and retire
You’re too alive to sleep tonight!
You’re off again!
through that Alice’s rabbit hole, the 2 a.m. high
& the house floods with the dark words and images pouring
out of you like tea through a colander
after the what-are-you-gonna-do-now,
that pressure-cooker prison
when the days were dull as dishwater
and you, closed up, in the motorway café of your soul
to not see how dismal the world was
that was then, this
is how
you’ve learned the location of joy
discovered that that half-dodged despair was not the final Revelation
because this is the 2 a m high, and you
you can tightrope-walk between worlds
side-step time
light the blue touch paper to your life and retire
You’re too alive to sleep tonight!
You’re off again!
through that Alice’s rabbit hole, the 2 a.m. high
let’s get lost
your voice – melting butter & honey on toast
Naked, warm as breakfast
your breasts the sea and your sweat as salty,
and as for the tang of that other taste!
and as for the tang of that other taste!
whenever you look at me so young & soft, close up
or with eyes that know & mind ticking
I touch how it could be –
or with eyes that know & mind ticking
I touch how it could be –
we blur
I come home in you
a book opens like a door at the top of the stairs
a book opens like a door at the top of the stairs
I hold you curled up like a cat
purring with warmth or woundedness
purring with warmth or woundedness
Or is it the other way round?
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