“Paris est comme une prostituée. De loin, elle vous parait ravissante, vous n’avez de cesse que vous la teniez entre vos bras. Au bout de cinq minutes, vous vous sentez vide, dégouté de vous-même. Vous avez l’impression d’avoir été roulé.”

Henry Miller (read by Alexandra)

Baby and her ukulele, Pablo’s Haiku: you’ll break your dick/ if you fuck shallow people/learn from my mistakes. Kate reading about Passion and Revolt. Hatem from Tunisia sur le conflit de civilization entre Orient et Occident. Alexandra reads Henri Miller: “Paris est une prostituèe.” Oskar’s swedish sex tips. Our Featured Poet from Boston: Erich Haygun. David Barnes closes his new crunchy sketchbook, and part I.

Lula: You should be happier than you are. Steven Marsher: Don’t ever move to Crow Point, Indiana. Ok. Swa, the fourth brightest star in the Universe. Jason start reading Luca and I go and grab some beer. Alberto in a prison near Tarifa. Very very blonde Troy: “Busking in the heat of belligerance, this is me, my fostering self.” Victor’s already tired of the 21 Century singing: “Take me, Take me, Take me, Take me to the 20second.” Moe and 100 000 Poets for a change from Agadir. Paris responding from the Link. Amel covering Shelter, closing Part II.

Yann: Chicken Omelette for you intellectuals of Spoken Word. Iben: When you look at the stars / do you see epic heroes / or just thousands of lights? Imee: Bedford in Broadway. Ben: Speaking like you think you should/ Joking like some wannabe Jew. Demian: Wild Horse, a true story. Isaiah and a few of my father’s cassettes. Helen: “No more Lutemaker. He’s gone.” We go too. It’s midnight. See you next Monday.

Cheers All,

Alberto

Photos by Viola Manfra.