Margo Berdeshevsky’s guilty pleasures were gifts of lingerie and a moth. ”Dear ex ex ex ex ex’, she wrote. Then sent ‘Postcards to the Body Politic.’
Natasha Larousse, arrived from the U.S.S.R. with vodka. Owen sang the history of Jersey from the Ice Age to the present day. Evan used to worked in a bomb shelter in Nebraska. Simone indulged in the guilty pleasure of prejudice. I read Kahlil Gibran and Ferlinghetti:
Poetry still falls from the skies
into our streets still open.
They haven’t put up the barricades,
the streets still alive with faces,
lovely men & women still walking
still lovely creatures everywhere,
in the eyes of all the secret of all
still buried there,
Whitman’s wild children still sleeping
Awake and sing in the open air.
Ferlinghetti – Poetry as insurgent art
‘After the funeral… cocktail sausages. As if parsley garnish could heal the heart.’ – Francesca. Alex spoke in the name of the last cigarette. Max told us the 15 weirdest things he did on alcoholic energy drinks – including making out with a dear. Pallavi said ‘Don’t feel guilty!’ and told us about her sister’s guilty pleasure – Jewish guys.
Kajsa and Company harmonised. Melinda walked determinedly in the wrong direction. Ferdinand likes to feel dirty. Gus’s guilty pleasures “are no one else’s fucking business.” Hanniffa had a rhythmic and beautiful ending. Gabriel’s tongue twisted in the wisdom of Adrian Daoud’s sax and sound effects.
Ambjorn brought Conan the Barbarian. James’ pigeon with one leg was genuinely terrified. Katie’s fingers were dead as the spoken word. David Sirois read a poem he abandoned today, one designed for easy grieving. Jennifer spoke of her almost right life. “What’s up with that finger?” asked Troy. “Ooops,” replied Kelly.
James’ guilty pleasure is supporting Wolverhampton Wanderers.
Tomorrow – Danger! – is the theme for SpokenWord at the Chat Noir.