Photos by Adele.
|Zach & Esmerelda|
Nearly the end of the season. Though SpokenWord will continue through the summer, so many new friends who will be gone soon.
Sam brought roses, rewriting the script, raving & ranting, red petalled. Maxime was off to Lebanon, leaving a trail of coffee cups and laughs. Marie went to the wire with a Prince cover. Dheeraj still remembers how you gave him 3 toffees on your birthday when it was just one for everyone else: “Hate is an ugly business for a 9 year old.”
Adele’s ghost, without a smile, was no ghost at all. But Trelys says “Though they may be deaf to the key you’re singing in, sing to them anyway.” Julien tried to buy 30 squid of kunk, in Camden, from a guy’s underwear.
|Emmanuelle & Suzanne|
Emmanuelle & Suzanne told what can happen when you study too much political sociology. “Encore un ejaculateur precoce!” Georgina fell asleep when she should pray. James got lost in a forest, walking with you under a bruised sky. Alberto too was in sombre mood – thinking of his body darkening and growing cold, of how his wriggling dick – that has till now been his ship’s rudder – will be flacid in death. Patrick left the stage – and the bar – with the audience still singing his song. A reversal of the usual situation. Troy’s God burped back the light and disappeared. Hal woke up to the city lights in his room, while Diana V offered a beer to a ghost – though not Adele’s ghost.
Taylor and Danielle brought us a Vagina Monologue. John clouded up his life. But Antoine wrote facing terror, like the line in Howl about cowering in underwear in unshaven rooms to listen to the terror through the wall… Seiphi’s poem about the capital of Bangladesh had maps of the city etched on the barefeet of children. Chris’s writing ghosts (What is it with all these ghosts this week?) came to torment him, or at least mildly annoy him & advocate buying shares in Mongolian goats. I’m not sure I can read my handwriting here but I think that’s what they did.
|Patrick, Chris & Hal|
Finally Tyler doesn’t love us, but he likes us. He was lost in a cubicle maze, calling us on a bad connection. And Ashley organised a multi-author blind poem (Exiquisite Corpse?) to mark the week many of us are leaving FOREVER. Ok, not forever, hopefully you’ll still come back and visit. And we’ll always have facebook. “If I could climb you,” she read, “I’d tie your tired lashes together so we had a place to be.”
|That’s all folks!|