Marie Clare a dans la vitrine de tes yeux. Gus began as a fake. He wanted to be liked but couldn’t stand people. He turned into his worst nightmare – the singalong shyster, the best karaoke man in town. Marty huddled into his coat, spied on his neighbours’ substitute goldfish in The Goldfish Substitution. Robert misintoxicated himself again. He got treatment for his synapse deficiency. Lynne knows grave tongues don’t talk. Nobody comes to see a pile of yesterday people. Charlie asked Mirror, mirror, Who’s the grooviest by far? Bruce knows poetry is for the not-so-straight shooters. Atleast boooks won’t fade to black. David (me!) as half masonry, half pain. Beth was dried up by office heat; being puddled, she hunted the hunter. Isabel read John Seawright – the king of the barbers wants me on his throne with my bad teeth. The role of Alberto was played by Bruce. Who knows why they lace up lips when they want some damp between them? Megan had a farewell poem for Ida – no more women with unbraided wildness or to tell me the philosophy of air conditioners. Rudolf saw a robin, hysterical and unhinged, fall in a wasted convenience store. Rufo wheeled out of a migraine nightmare. He was drip fed by meercats. Chris + friend read his play about a dog called Raskolnikov. Samantha watched her crisis wander past her. JD Ragan and Jessica are falling out of love with Alaska, thanks to Sarah Palin. Claire Trev was the Furniture Whisperer. Beth’s brain was ordered differently. Anna was drinking, not sinking. Rudolf’s piano bore the callouses of early morning caresses, his stereo shellshocked. And finally Alberto took us to the toilets that Babe Ruth built.
A ce soir.