Some highlights, by David.

Marius groped his sister. “Eliza,” cried Colin, “ride me like a steed! Enfold me in your knees!” Amanda was at it too, despite being 84, she wanted to make love one more time. And she was transformed from marble to mozzarella.
James had an ode to CY O’Connor. He cycled from Perth to Melbourne. Sit in one space long enough and the Milky Way will come to you.
I read from and adapted from Nicke Greene’s lines in Virginia Woolf’s Orlando:

      Oh young writers will turn out any trash that will sell…It confounds me to think that I have sold only 500 copies of my poem! (Though this of course is largely due to what can only be described as a conspiracy against me.) It hurts me to say it, for I love literature – as I love life – but the art of poetry is dead in England.

Alexa reported on cat life.
Grace approached the morning fridge. Saved nobody with her final gasp.

Lauren, New York-based singer, let the blues roll through Culture Rapide.

John McNulty went home with the waitress.
Moe & Anne Marie murmured in the night.
Maxx’s children lie in silent spaces.
Bee never eats eggs alone.
Mike was dragged across the couch for 15 hours (or possibly the south, my handwriting was deteriorating as the night wore on…)
Pablo. Ah, Pablo, with his evil flowers.
REA corrupted the flesh. Will I ever find my mother, by and by, in the sky?
Miche Miche? A magician, lost on the metro.
Paul went howling through the bar like village fire.
Beth, lying closer to God (that sod).
Troy? Tenderness with a belt. A foolish heart on a rampage.

Camille did Motherology, in the name of her children.

 Next SpokenWord this Monday, 22nd Aug from 8.30.

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