Report from 12th March

Fanculo! says Nicolas

Report by David.
Photos by Marie Lutz. More here

What do I remember from that far off night?
Magda drifting into oblivion…
Gary’s quick fish…
Marie Lutz & Christelle’s altercation on a bus…
Kate’s jazz over the drowned city.

Then Nicolas the barman interrupting with his poem (partly written by Alberto and me, it has to be said):

Fanculo! Fanculo! Fanculo!
I keep hearing it from the apartment downstairs.
What does it mean? Do you know?
I like to think they are words of love.

Fanculo! say it like you say I love you.

The do do ron à la Jason, a tragic optimist.

Ah, Patrick… Declan McManus’s oily slick on a wind-up world.
Then Lucy overheard on a Thursday afternoon.
I like to think that Jason was reminding us of what St Paul said: “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate, I do.” Do do do not judge for yourself with his recording here.

Camilla saw worms moving in the red dust. Troy: ”It’s fun to play with fire.” Marie Baby was In Heaven. And then it was half-time, time to party. 
Then Round 2:
LN carried out sunflower surgery. Rufo: “Here on our iceberg, these are the best times we’ll ever know.” Ashley had a love poem for Heisenberg, wet and electric. Brian had a stoney assed grope. Alberto explained about courtesy farts (between gentlemen). Amelia let the wind move her. Henry: “…dipping our biscuit minds into cups of art.” And Ben, in a song-story, followed in her ghost-footsteps.
Thought is a trap!
Salut maintenant.
David
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