Noir Magick Finale

A chilly October night was made even chillier by Cabaret Noir’s Halloween show. At least we weren’t knocking the snow off our boots. A full house, some in costume, ‘enjoyed’ an evening of zombies, witches, vampires & Bela Lugosi. Lizzie Violet, with lips artful sown shut, started the show with a piece of her own: ‘I could still hear it breathing.’ Philip Cairns brought the Ghosts of the Past – a piece sparked by a film shoot in a place he had lived as a child – there’s a movie plot is that – apparently he’s still haunted by Annette Funicello’s breasts. He was followed by Shawn Sosnowski who did a fine acapella take on Bright Eye’s ‘You Will.’

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First feature D. S. Campbell hit the stage with his inner child literally exploding out of his head. He read from his Zombie Manifesto. First a scene on an airport tarmac: ‘just enough breathing room, to consider the weather,’ ‘I saw them shuffle … eating as they themselves were dying.’ Tension was palpable & characters were sharply drawn. The other section was the nano-technological rational of the zombies – for once it makes sense but you’ll have to read the book to find out what it is.

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After a break Saraah October did a vampire piece: ‘She said I could come in, but I wasn’t sure.’ I followed with my much anticipated set – anticipated mainly by me 🙂 I’ve never read one of my short stories so I wasn’t sure if I had the energy, for one thing, or that the audience would follow & not get antsy after five minutes. Yes I had the energy & no they didn’t get antsy. Sex Magick cast its spell over them.

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After a break Conflicting Plaid hit the stage – bass, lead & drummer in various zombie makeup – or were they just scary than usual mimes? As always their punk drive delivered a pile-driver set of propulsive fun. They added a few seasonal songs: ‘pieces of you keep turning up’ ‘she loves me for my brraains’ ‘you cut off my hand & shoved it up my ass.’ Great originals plus some covers include a great take on Bela Lugosi’s Dead. A set that left us both called & warmed up.pinkdoll

Sadly, & unknown at the time, this was the final of Cabaret Noir. The Central just isn’t making enough $ on sweet potato fries – most poets, performers don’t have enough cash to keep that show commercially viable enough. Rest assured this isn’t the end of Lizzie Violet.

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For my set I read Sex Magical Quarterly – a stolen magazine has unexpected results on the thief – this is a excerpt from the story:

 

When Hogsy got home he stashed his magazines in a box under his bed. All through supper he itched to read whatever it was the Sex Magick had to say.

As Hogsy ate, he felt the witch’s eyes burning into him. They seemed to be everywhere he looked.

….

Back in his room, Hogsy propped open his history text. The Sex Magick pull-out fit perfectly under it so he could read it and hide it fast if someone came into his room

The witch’s glittering eyes danced on and off the page. They seemed to be in 3D. He held the cover at eye level and tilted it this way and that to see what sort of printing technique they had used. It had to be some sort of laser print. The eyes darted in a way that made him open the insert.

The first page was an introduction to the use of the spell. He skimmed it; the print got smaller toward the bottom of the page. It was stuff about getting the right implements, taking take to clear one’s mind. Stuff he didn’t care about.

The weird font and odd use of language made it difficult for him to understand what was being said. Then it became another language all together.

“Nam drim incagto Hogsy fridamo.” He was amazed to see his name right there in the spell. He looked away, rubbed his eyes and looked back. Yep, it said Hogsy all right!

There was whole paragraph which he felt compelled to say out loud. The words felt odd as he stumbled through them, but when he read it a second time, it flowed and he felt he actually understood what it said. His name only appeared in that one place. After the third time, his eyes became heavy and he fell asleep at his desk.

He woke out of a wild sex dream. He was with the witch on the cover making out in a huge, endless bed. The bed was like the beach. She kept touching his cock and balls with her tongue while talking to him. She was speaking in the same language as the spell. He was forced awake by the need to piss.

When he woke he was in bed. He didn’t remember leaving his desk. His cock throbbed with pee pressure, and he rushed to the bathroom.

He struggled with his fly on the way to the bathroom to get his cock out before he pissed his pants. It felt like his underwear had gotten twisted around and all bunched up around his nut sack.

He kicked the bathroom door shut behind him and pushed his jeans down. He couldn’t believe what he saw. His cock was big. He was dizzy looking at the size of it. He began to piss and the stream was dark yellow and he was missing the toilet. Pee was splashing off the rim, on to the floor and walls.

He was afraid to touch his cock, but had to keep it aimed. How could it grow that much overnight? What took one hand to aim now took two. Yesterday he could get his hand around the shaft; now it was like trying to get his hands around a … a football.

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“Call in sick again”

Another cool Noir night – by cool I mean weather wise not hipster wise – the hipsters who come to Noir are way beyond cool 🙂 A packed house dug into great food & great entertainment at The Central. A wicked set of open stagers started the show off as ‘hormones & emotion arose’ because ‘it’s hard to write a love poem that doesn’t end in a restraining order’ so ‘come on girls, let’s rule the world,’ plus a fine Steve Stills cover. I did hints of my next two upcoming features.

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First feature Cynthia Gould  delivered a great set of original songs plus some perfect covers: We’re Not Going To Take It as a country waltz! She has a strong, confident voice that flows liquidly from whispered, sweet, gravel & full-out diva-tude. Her rhythmic guitar playing never pulled our attention away from her songs about bad girls, dangerous guitarists, sex & hangovers. ‘They’ll break your heart just to write a song’ ‘you were smoking hot five minutes ago but now you are unfuckable’ ‘fuck the day job in the morning, let’s get drunk tonight …. call in sick again.’

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kiss my jurassic ass

After a break Whiskey Winter did a polished, sizzling burlesque routine to Bad Things. Her back jumpsuit with it’s sparkly seams was built for unzipping, to reveal lacy pink underneath to a final reveal & an all too brief tassel twirl. She was slinky, sensual, traditional & as always, left us want more twirl.

Another set of open stagers brought great covers of Eurythmics, Heart, ‘pressure points & pressure drops’ ‘she’s got one of those new tongue rings’ ending with a some sweet violin. But the pressure didn’t drop far before Conflicting Plaid hit the stage with a flood of bass, drums & guitar.

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not another ice age !

Their songs are short bursts of complete entact punk, controlled mayhem ala the Ramones, early Elvis Costello but with less angst. These guys are in well into their 40s but aren’t revisiting their youth but reinventing the definition of age. This ain’t nostalgia. They charge full force into the propulsion without seeming to stop for a breath but do manage to down few beers on the way. ‘Back in the day, I got laid’ Love their ode to Glory (Holes) ’I don’t know if you’re a girl or a guy …. but for God’s sake don’t tell my wife.’ In Dead Sexy … ‘the queen of the zombies loves me for my brains.’ Are they really recording an album? If they do, not matter how long it is it’ll be too short.

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when I hit the open stage I read Negotiate from my Raunch & Roll set & this from my Summer Refections set:

Dad’s Pockets

as a kid

I would go through the pockets

of my Dad’s suit coats sport jackets

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 adulthood

 

I’d skulk out

from my secret foray

a little daring thief

sneaky   guilty

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 never heeded

I’d be back there in a week or so

go through those pockets

try on those sport jackets

grow much too slow into adulthood

much too quick into guilt

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