The Subterranean Poetry Club holds its first meeting

… somewhere under the 14th arrondisement. The square cut stone tunnels like some tomb, some long dead corridor in the soundless heart of a pyramid. 18 of us made the descent, 18 of us made it back, through a hole in the wall of an abandoned railway tunnel. So many junctions, so many twists and turns. Without a map we’d have been lost. Water sometimes deeper than our boots, how long has it been trapped down there? Spoke to some other spelunkers who were going to La Chateau – discovered a castle carved out of rock. In La Plage before a fresco of a Japanese wave we halted. David Hawkins retold a folk ballad, spoke of murder and that elusive almost perfect crime. We invoked The Hollow Men. Ink was blood and it was Interesting Times for Generation Z. Joy, Deb and Danny spoke in terrifying sinsiter unison. Conor let loose the dogs of war, by owl light. The Fifth Dentist plied his trade. Maxime made as if to endarken Buddha. And more. All by soft whiskey light, the smell of candle wax, its hot burning drip on the hand.

Thanks to Danny and Peter for the photos.

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