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Spoken Word Report 21.11.2011
Crowd.
Willkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome to Spoken Word Paris. Thanks Troy. Mandoline opens, Jo plays the piano this time, James Navè having light issues (that’s my fault). David reading Pity le pauvre parisien: Who d’you think you are, Johnny Halliday?
Patrick.
Griffin’s got boyscouts in expedition between his legs. Come taste the poet. Em Johnstone with “Men are from mars, and girls are from Venus” and “Beautiful Pollution”. Listen to this one in a more domestic atmosphere. Lucy G. about traumatic sex, Brandon “eat me, drink me .....and Calvin Kline”, Kate operating necessary surgery. James “In high definition across the street, she pretended not to look”. Troy took this song called Festival from Sigur Ros, screwed the islandic and the gibberish syllables, rewrote a poem, sat down at piano and sang it. Holy Guacamole!!! Whadda xxxx is gibberish? A famous poem in gibberish is Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll. Please Johnny Depp, can you read it for us?
Troy.
A new Chris Newens production, I just remember one line, ehm two words: “Faboulous breasts”. Jason Marcos: dry salt and many tears”. Felicia: two poems for the same person, some sappy shit (those are her words not mine), Megan Fernandes, the poetry editor of Strangers in Paris, is back in town “dating the taxodermist.” Check out her books and blog. Alberto’s for Megan panegyrical remix “Phenomenal Womegan”. Georginas backstabbing and opening secret files from Alberto’s sketchbook, secret dialogues during a lectures on “Dante and the conception of authority in the middle ages.” (“enormous huge gigantic boobs)” Sara and Anne “J’ai eu une enfance dificile”: Maxim slightly misunderstood the meaning of featured reader, so Miss Peacock and Amelia read when we were already overtime, but we made it! See you next monday here in Rue Jean Pierre Timbaud, down in the basement au Chat Noir!
Alberto
Next SpokenWord: Monday 28th Nov at Le Chat Noir
Host: David
Place: Le Chat Noir, 76 rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud, 75011
Métro Parmentier/Couronnes/Oberkampf
Sign up from 8pm in the bar
Poetry begins 9pm... underground
Report from SPOKENWORD 7.11.11
...featuring Emma McGordon, Lucy Hopkins, Benji, Sandeep, Leemore and many others.
Pity les pauvres Parisian men with gold teeth,
fight off your father's idea of a cuddle,
search for your reflection in a bucket of silky oil,
your heart punctured.
If you'd known me,
we could have been great friends.
But now I have to roast you and kill you.
Rise arborescent, my carnivore plant.
Berdache boy -
he throws like a girl but he fucks like a man,
and he won't tell me what you took from him.
Dance, waiting for the metro,
with looks like the crack of a whip,
to piano sonata number two in B flat minor.
Every year, make a little piece of Tuscany disappear,
coax deformations from jagged rock.
Take a deep sea dive down the toilet.
Be witched,
be bothered
and be wildered.
Sing golf songs.
Boys, don't you dream of princesses rescuing you?
Pity les pauvres Parisian men with gold teeth,
fight off your father's idea of a cuddle,
search for your reflection in a bucket of silky oil,
your heart punctured.
If you'd known me,
we could have been great friends.
But now I have to roast you and kill you.
Rise arborescent, my carnivore plant.
Berdache boy -
he throws like a girl but he fucks like a man,
and he won't tell me what you took from him.
Dance, waiting for the metro,
with looks like the crack of a whip,
to piano sonata number two in B flat minor.
Every year, make a little piece of Tuscany disappear,
coax deformations from jagged rock.
Take a deep sea dive down the toilet.
Be witched,
be bothered
and be wildered.
Sing golf songs.
Boys, don't you dream of princesses rescuing you?
 |
| Ah, la tristesse... |
SPOKENWORD 14th November
Host: Alberto
Place: Le Chat Noir, 76 rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud, 75011
Métro Parmentier/Couronnes/Oberkampf
Sign up from 8pm in the bar
Poetry begins 9pm... underground
Halloween SpokenWord
 |
| David, photo (c) Jean-Alain Le Borgne |
Halloween began with B's scary whispering Nevermorrrrrrrre, Poe's The Raven. Me reading my translation of Poison (or possibly, The Fish) by Baudelaire. Georgina's Little Red Riding Hood chomping on her grandmother's thigh, while the woodcutter throbbed with the smell of sweat, salt and hair.
 |
| Patrick |
 |
| Lucile, photo (c) Jean-Alain Le Borgne |
 |
| Marie Baby combines Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf in one. |
 |
| Alberto: While I was killing you, I was saying I love you. |
 |
| Camille selling a little girl's soul. |
Gabriel was buried at night. Or possibly in night. Max practised alchemy, changing unrequited love into that which is desired. He reiterated the act of love, but found propinquity is not fusion. Jason pretended to be Italian. Ryan's Satan lives in Prague, drowned within a sanguine flood - but is it wine... or blood?
 |
| Troy: festering feet from the old country |
Bruce was Black Pelvis, brought us the liar who says sleep will come easily and a girl who smells of bacon fat. James gave us 'Bicycle, my Bicycle.' Margot and Tamara shook dreams from our hair.
Next SpokenWord: Tonight at Le Ballon Vert
Sign up from 8pm, first round starts 9pm
Thanks to Julianne Sibiski and Jean-Alain Le Borgne for the photos.
Next SpokenWord: Tonight at Le Ballon Vert
Sign up from 8pm, first round starts 9pm
Thanks to Julianne Sibiski and Jean-Alain Le Borgne for the photos.
Pity le pauvre Parisian
Sens d’humour excised
at birth
but schooled in ridicule.
Langage distorting
the mouth.
Monkeys with Mick Jagger lips
condemned to a permanent pout.
With their enunciated phrases from Molière,
their aristocratic scowls.
- Who d’you think
you are, Johnny Halliday?
Consider the
curse of le pauvre Parisian
Thinking
themselves thinner at the café philo
or dodging
dogshit in the place du Cliché.
Watch as they
set their sharp shoulders
and walk directly
into opponent pedestrians.
They disdain
apologies as the mark of fools
- Ha! These collisions are not accidents!
Paris! A museum of steam-blasted ghosts.
Suspicious,
defending their corners.
Pour le vrai Parisian every joke is mockery
and behind
their code of kisses
they languish,
conjugated by
their own contempt.
- Ah, tourist! Stranger! Peasant lost
in the big city!
What if you should contract their
disease?
by David Barnes
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