You might as well drink cans on the way, you know, to a poetry night if you forgot your black turtle neck. Camped your pretensions . Slacked off the cynicism, still there from another pepsi advert on your 2 hour long ‘smooth jazz’ piano youtube video from the night before.
The Watershed is nice. Rooms upstairs. A ven diagram of cinema, light drinking and spoken word poetry. Around the edges me and Al, wandering in the white outlines, drinking heavy, wondering what exactly is non-spoken word poetry? Silence. Maybe. Spoken word is a phrase that looks good on a ven diagram, maybe, somewhere between Rap and poetry.
Anyway, Mark Grist was the headline act.
He played at the end. A Keynsham boy. Really funny. Really good, clever, dark, cynical and optimistic like all good drunks. Not that he’s a drunk, just that he is cynical and optimistic like one. His poetry wakes up smiling with the sugar of last night, sways through laughing and swells into quiet truths and darkness. Anyway.
Indigo, the other big act, read from her phone and jumped on the next train to London. Some of her stuff was good but you can’t get into it because she’s maybe rushed who knows.
The two compares were good. One of them said ‘Autumnal Rust,’ on a car, in his own poem and that was memorable and good.
Anyway, the ‘Open Mikes and Miktresses.’
Depressing, flesh off the bones stuff, skinning themselves. It’s all morbid retrospect about abortions and how it could of been better if we’d only known what we do now. Some of it is clever and good but all of these brave and grudging figures are hunched under the strain of some chip they’re trying to shake off.
Whatever happened to ‘fuck it?’ of BEING your mistakes and loving them. There’s no carnal, tooth bearing people up there. Maybe they’re hiding in ‘Spoons Instagramming microwaved food. Laughing. Imagine that.
Anyway, maybe you shouldn’t go to poetry expecting an upbeat atmos. It’s just a case of ownership. You don’t really need to have it anymore. Nobody owns anything anymore. It’s all get a car on finance and lease your emotions to the internet. Hide your actions behind a screen and be someone else. We are all digital Geisha, maybe. Nothing much is real online and when you’re off it you can just carry it on.
She had an abortion. We were young. I Ignored her on messenger. Thank fuck because I feel free and she’s a professor.