"Miss Peacock: “Love. This is another lie. I’m still waiting for the truth, so tell me another lie.”
Paul: Fuckin sport, sport fucking. The stoic Ukulhelen sings: Boyfriend in a coma. Isabel and Janet Winterspoon: I love you is always a quotation. Eric reading McGuckin’s poems, Megan reading Pessoa’s diaries, Bruce reading “When I was a boy in Kentucky” and Alberto The Poem of the Drunken Bride part II. The stranger stages an improvisational play featuring Miss Peacock with balls, aka John, Rudolph dedicated to Gabriel, Christopher wears a bag on his head and neologizes with Sarah. Jason goes bilingual and it’s fucking cool. So I take away a copy of his stuff ‘cause I want to put it in the report, and now I’ve lost it. Anna: “I like to to dream alone”, Marty introduces us to the whole work of P.K.R. Mieklejohn in Amour-Propre, Sarah writes poems on the metro, Rita is trapped in Budapest, Jessica: “Do you think I like you as a friend?” First kiss, followed by first sex, followed by first argue. We are aging. Let’s write about that. Alberto "
http://spokenwordparis.blogspot.com/
i wish that i had written this.
consider it a kind of late valentine.
Monday, March 1
Wednesday, February 24
grand plans
He paints in oils when he should be studying. Paint drips onto his shoes and through his worn-down carpet and he doesn’t really care.
He will not sit his exam tomorrow. He thinks it doesn’t matter, really. He’s considering someone he could call instead. They’ll smoke another cigarette on the balcony, drinking coffee saying nothing. Later, they’ll pretend that wasn’t all. Company is fickle. He knows this.
He writes in blue biro on public transport. He doesn’t care much for probationary licenses or rust-ridden cars. He likes delays and babbling strangers. There is no-one at his destination. He thinks he doesn’t mind.
He wonders about plurality and grammar in the collected works of William Shakespeare. Anything much beyond that is just a walking shadow, to him. Anything much behind is just a clutter of 26.
He’ll drop out and make coffee until his eyes burn with sting of caffeine and his clothes smell of sweat and espresso. His hands will fidget with the labels on takeaway cups, and his hair will be tied back, like it used to be. He’ll talk to the girl in the fruit shop next door and later they’ll pretend not to see one-another.
He misses kissing, sometimes. He says, just you and me, please, can we?
He paints in oils when he should be studying.
(He thinks it’s all a bit pathetic)
He will not sit his exam tomorrow.
He will not sit his exam tomorrow. He thinks it doesn’t matter, really. He’s considering someone he could call instead. They’ll smoke another cigarette on the balcony, drinking coffee saying nothing. Later, they’ll pretend that wasn’t all. Company is fickle. He knows this.
He writes in blue biro on public transport. He doesn’t care much for probationary licenses or rust-ridden cars. He likes delays and babbling strangers. There is no-one at his destination. He thinks he doesn’t mind.
He wonders about plurality and grammar in the collected works of William Shakespeare. Anything much beyond that is just a walking shadow, to him. Anything much behind is just a clutter of 26.
He’ll drop out and make coffee until his eyes burn with sting of caffeine and his clothes smell of sweat and espresso. His hands will fidget with the labels on takeaway cups, and his hair will be tied back, like it used to be. He’ll talk to the girl in the fruit shop next door and later they’ll pretend not to see one-another.
He misses kissing, sometimes. He says, just you and me, please, can we?
He paints in oils when he should be studying.
(He thinks it’s all a bit pathetic)
He will not sit his exam tomorrow.
Tuesday, February 23
even if i quit, there's not a chance in hell i'd stop
in a heavy front room we compare insomnias
breaking each others' fingers with each turn of
conversation; bigger than this night, or the next, or the next, or those that stretch
in front. like bottomlessness
there stops being a glamour to the light-headedness, hallucinations, falsely constructed words and grammatically awkward shake hands
and truly, you'd just like to finally hit the bottom where
at last the frustrations
we cynicize
become the ripped red insides of womanhood which
can curl around your cloudy mind.
go to sleep.
breaking each others' fingers with each turn of
conversation; bigger than this night, or the next, or the next, or those that stretch
in front. like bottomlessness
there stops being a glamour to the light-headedness, hallucinations, falsely constructed words and grammatically awkward shake hands
and truly, you'd just like to finally hit the bottom where
at last the frustrations
we cynicize
become the ripped red insides of womanhood which
can curl around your cloudy mind.
go to sleep.
traumatism
these projections are the gaps between old train carriages where we shot up:
you, eyes gleaming with
metallic thrill, smiling crooked moving with the
tracks
while she
pulls her posture to forget.
you, eyes gleaming with
metallic thrill, smiling crooked moving with the
tracks
while she
pulls her posture to forget.
'i don't want a career'
hopelessness becoming
units of our mapped out futures
placements in the twitching eyes
chasing another cigarette the way we used to chase
the things
to know, collector cards and grainy tv
worn scratchy blanket in shades of brown and
backs burning in the afternoon sun. my eyes water
at how young i am around you.
units of our mapped out futures
placements in the twitching eyes
chasing another cigarette the way we used to chase
the things
to know, collector cards and grainy tv
worn scratchy blanket in shades of brown and
backs burning in the afternoon sun. my eyes water
at how young i am around you.
Sunday, February 21
because people say clever things at various points of this technology-fest we call life
"all the little letters on the page represent pictures in your head, but you only paint pictures they want to read"
Tuesday, February 16
Monday, February 15
biggest army the world has ever seen.
today a woman on the train was crying. sobbing into the phone that she'd just got a train ticket that she couldn't afford, couldn't pay her bills, hadn't eaten in days and was running out of phone credit and never knew things could get this bad. her phone cut out and she looked out the window and just kept crying onto the dirty plastic windows. i wrote her a letter i didn't give. the woman across from me gave her a fifty dollar note and a ham sandwich. a businessman looked embarassed as he passed her a tenner on his way off the train. an old guy gave her directions. there is no, international, co-operation without grassroots things like this. we help each other.
Friday, February 12
88 and a half seconds later
good time charlie falls
asleep under bruises,
blanketing the garish night.
eyes close on delicates, veined webs
and he watches from the inside as
banks break, and our lies of drought
(farmers falling onto browned grass, hot sun
of our searing plains)
become lies of the departed.
(and the wind curls around him)
sleep clatters like a train on
rusty tracks but
you; you are silent
pilferage of a conversation i once had
you spend your youth
feeling self-indulgently misanthropic
delaying the
making of good or bad decisions.
he says: your twenties, that's the time to explore,
you know? know the world. know yourself.
i don't feel like talking
so i nod, yeah, yeah, the eyes, the cheeks, the nose, i nod
and really - this is all he wants.
innocence is stubble hiding fears
(of friends
youth
passing
by)
a steady drip of information poses
no threat to a sturdy cocoon.
feeling self-indulgently misanthropic
delaying the
making of good or bad decisions.
he says: your twenties, that's the time to explore,
you know? know the world. know yourself.
i don't feel like talking
so i nod, yeah, yeah, the eyes, the cheeks, the nose, i nod
and really - this is all he wants.
innocence is stubble hiding fears
(of friends
youth
passing
by)
a steady drip of information poses
no threat to a sturdy cocoon.
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