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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 Spoken Word Paris 14 . 11 . 2011



By Alberto.

We are changing venue every monday. Tonight we are downstairs au Chat Noir. We’ve been there before but was faraway more violent. I have a deja vu, let’s see how it was: when Writers get Violent. This time was less brutal but not less emotional. Kate Noakes opens it with her Ophelia. Lucy A bought a conditioner for dirty hair. Stay tuned she’s got a show on December 9 and 10. Further details coming soon on this website. Bethany: Fuck connotations, I have no pussy. James Navè started writing in hospital: Where the balls go. Then for the first time on our stage, James Simpson with a poem called “My journey on line 4”.
Second Stanza:

From porte d'orleans to porte de clignacourt
Central & straight goes good old line 4.
"But its better than london" I hear you say
"And you get phone signal to text & play"
A carriageful of people shouting down their phone
Angry & annoyed that they'll be late home
No I prefer the british way of suffering in silence
And thats what im doing but im sensing violence
Especially now that an accordian has started
And someone around me has definitely farted.

Check out his weekly radio show.
Amber didn’t want to read poetry: “’ cause my mum is a poet and I’ve got issues.” So she told a story that could be entitled: “I thought suppository was a french thing.” Naser’s Sufi: “As I bathe in the eternal sunrise... I shower my mind with the lucid teardrops of time.” Alberto’s afternoon on roftoops. “I walk on rooftops to watch the others and avoid meeting them.” Felicia: Is there a first stage? Death. Light Leaks were smoking (what?) before playing. Their new LP is almost ready.Mandoline in french: “...tu me meteorite, tu me fragilize, tu me....” Jo. More Jo . Jason. More Jason. Lucile, Troy wants just tenderness with a belt, and then you’ll remember him when you’re hit by a car, Jasmine E. Way hasn’t written anything in 8 years, Georgina ...oopps I was upstairs ordering a Gin Tonic, Lucy G: There is a song for the dead children. Kelly’s Very cold friday. The Maxx: Byron on Speed: “I have Jesus in my veins” plus two excerpts from his favourite author Malcolm Lowry, one was Delirium in Veracruz.



DELIRIUM IN VERA CRUZ (by Malcolm Lowry)

Where has the tenderness gone, he asked the mirror
Of the Biltmore Hotel, cuarto 216. Alas,
Can its reflection lean against the glass
Too, wondering where I have gone, into what horror?
Is that it staring at me now with terror
Behind your frail, tilted barrier? Tenderness
Was here, in this very retreat, in this
Place, its form seen, cries heard by you. What error
Is here? Am I that forked rashed image?
Is this the ghost of love which you reflected?
Now with a background of tequila, stubs, dirty collars,
Sodium perborate, and a scrawled page
To the dead, telephone disconnected?
... He smashed all the glass in the room. (Bill: $50)

James. I loved his song, but he disappeared before I could ask him about it. And the ex-virgin, nowadays whore Naser closed la soirèe. Good Stuff Guys! We loved the night, we loved the place, what do you think? Should we stay here every monday? Ok. Come back au Chat Noir, next Monday. Sign up 8ish. The show starts 9ish! On the italian biological clock.

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?







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
Kate washed down a piece of Mrs Haversham's wedding cake with the best espresso in the world. Patrick slouched out of Babylon, his hour come round at last. Sandeep practised interpretive dancing before the cafes of Paris. And a fridge-cold fish stared at Lucille, rolling down the hill.
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.


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