The Paris streets were like a ghost town last night – everyone was indoors watching the great Sego vs Sarko debate. But in the Ogre à Plumes Spoken Word filled the upstairs bar for an intimate gig that spilled out onto the street.
Some razor sharp poetry and a lot of funny poetry, all kicked off with the opening from Under Milk Wood as an entré. Toby Dress spent 38 weeks in the womb and a night in Guadalajara, or somewhere like that. Naomi described the Hell of sleeping with an atheist and wished she was blonde. Neil dodged bullets to break the last glass angel in his grandma’s house. Seth finally went out for some meaningless sex and found himself tied down and with a vicious desire to destroy all those ungraded essays. Denis played sax to Norma’s night of the iguana. My poetry went on the run in Los Angeles. Bex was pursued by a walking cliché. Maxime, well, Maxime went mystical but was pinned down by Trudie’s poem about himself. Christine met the love of her life and everything they said was simultaneous.
Till next time,