Can someone turn on the lights?

It was a dark, dark night… downstairs au Chat Noir. My mind was politicking in anticipation of the sudden flashes of inspiration (satori) that this evening in Paris would bring.

Ollie arrived a week late, with Teenage Poetry (last week’s theme). His voice breaking, his soul setting, he brought us his dancing spiders and flat-packed our existence. Premature ejaculation.

Sock puppet poetry from Thomas

Thomas told the tale of Jacques the pastry chef, the Coca-Cola Cassanova, and Edwina the diluted, bristling librarian. In sock puppetry. Edwina unleashed her laugh but avoided the very verve of life. ‘I am an unread book,’ she sighed.

Jane brought the Sleep Runner. Gabriel recalled Canadian cold and misses the white of night in January.

Amel sang a Heartstopper song. Kelly took to the piano. Simon Paul announced ‘Je me reconfort de my lifelong darkness.’ Alex conjugated the verb to hold in a broken circuit of not-us.

Jonathan failed spectacularly. Lizzie read Only snow by Allan Ahlberg. Phineas sang a capella ‘Fly me to the moon.’ Julien changed books. And Alberto described his satori in rue de Sorbier, en route to buy a lamp bulb after a shaving accident brought on by shaving in the dark. ‘I emerged from the dark bathroom my face a mask of blood…’

Kelly on piano

Round 3 grew more chaotic. Nicolette dragged a monkey cage into the forest. Ana sang Tom Waits – I tell you all my secrets but I lie about my past – accompanied by Rafael on piano. HLn improvised a channel charnelle. Bruce brought us back to the days of disco ball babies.

Tomorrow’s theme for SpokenWord 28th Jan is PIRATES. Do with it what you will. Or do what you would have done anyway.

Check out HLn’s amazing site Agglomerat des Reveurs including Georgina’s Dear Paris letters from America and much more. Her slam is every Tuesday Au Clin’s bar see here.

And don’t forget we’re looking for subs from spokenworders to The Bastille in our continuing effort to document what goes on here on a Monday night and what poetics are being concocted in the fair language of English in that heathen city of Paris. Details.

Oh and we’re still looking for a regular photographer to replace the wonderful Stef. Free drinks anyone?

Cheers all,
David