Hosting The Beautiful & The Damned is alway a treat especially when celebrating its one year anniversary with a dynamic line up and stellar open stagers. I even debuted a new piece – one that may be part of my Art Bar set, we’ll see.
First up was Gemma Files who read a solid enticing section for the third volume of her hexslinger series – it gave us a real feel for the multilevel ‘magic’ in the books – Mexican mythology mixed with gun-toting cowboys (who happen to be gay). I hope she’s doing the audio versions. She ended her set with a couple of poems again dealing with dark myths but this time in contemporary settings – ways of treating an ex, that is if Loki is your ex.
Feature two was Spencer Butt with a high-energy stage thumping performance. He spews vibrant images and unlike many slam poets deals with personal issues with compassion and not anger. Too many great lines and images to keep track of – ‘his memory was drunk eating popcorn in the balcony’ – ‘he was born in an aviary and died in a place crash’
Here’s a pic, taken by Lizzie Violet, of me kissing Butt –
Music feature Carlin Belof wrapped the evening up & wrapped us around her fingers at the same time. Songs about relationship difficulties that were oddly uplifting. Great lyrics and a fine guitar player as well – But as she sings being told you’re talented and are going far may not be the solution – so screw you.
Cake was served, drinks were enjoyed & good time was had by all. I’ll be hosting BuDa again in December and have already started to line up my festive features.
As I mentioned a few blogs ago I’m working on a series sparked by Montaigne. (Of Quick or Slow Speech ) This one was also influenced by a podcast lecture on Robert Lowell that talked about a poem he had written after the death of his father.
as a kid
I would go through the pockets
of my Dad’s suit jackets sport coats
as they hung in the closet
I would find quarters which I’d take
sometimes fifty-cent pieces which I’d leave
I’d slip the over-sized jackets
off their hangers
wear them in the dark of the closet
in the smell of his things
his shoes miles too big for me
trying to steal into adult hood
I’d skulk out
from my secret foray
a little daring thief
fearful of being found out
when he’d miss the pocket change
I’d be confronted
say too quick I don’t know what he meant
blurt out I didn’t do that
which he never believed
if only I’d hung those coats back the right way
he’d let me go with warning
that I was slow to heed
I’d be back there in a week or so
go through those pockets
try on those shoes
grow much too slow into adulthood
much too quick into guilt