6th October was our first night at Le Cabaret Populaire, Belleville. A lot more French poets – which was great. The theme was loosely Intoxication. Began with Fanfan, for whom nous sommes des faites divers. I had a 2 a.m. high then got lost. Doudou dreamed of his neighbour. Ellis’champagne sent a big fuck you, a conversation creator & tongue loosener. Jacko did his ”not joy text” because Paris Hilton a compris le sense de la vie. Leemore wanted to Wake UP! and looked good dancing with a childlike ambition to kiss you. Dana pounded the keyboard and sung some crazy stuff I can’t read in my notes, but it looks like ”atrophy unspoken from Parkslope, Brooklyn.” Thomas was in Calcutta. Dona D. Leter was toxic. Christopher was mad, bad and dangerous to know. Didier produced an Albatros. Amy Ireland wandered round the palace of Kublai Khan. Maxx watches as each moment unfolded. Epiphany in the artifical night.
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
& 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
and as for the tang of that other taste!
or with eyes that know & mind ticking
I touch how it could be –
a book opens like a door at the top of the stairs
purring with warmth or woundedness
SpokenWord Paris 