Dear Sir
and/or Madam.
Imagine my surprise
when the local poetry event sometimes referred to by the younger generations as
‘Spokening Words’) which I had heard was meant to be one of the highlights of
the so-called York
so-called Poetry so-called Scene turned out to be nothing more than a sub-par
collection of, if you’ll pardon my French, wee-poor words.
God it was
awful.
It was like having your ears being drilled by a rusty
screwdriver posing as a drill.
It was like
having your eyes being poked by
scorpions who haven’t had a day off in weeks
It was like having your teeth being furiously chiselled a drunk and sexually frustrated Michelangelo.
It was like someone jabbing their feet into your nostrils despite a no
feet policy.
It was like having your tongue being scraped by an ill-constructed tongue-scraper.
It was
AWFUL.
Never before
in my LITERALLY half-decades of going to see people say things into microphones
have I seen such a God-awful display of people saying things into microphones
IN THE WRONG WAY.
Lily Luty went up first. What happened? That lovely theatre student must have picked
up an Eminem album from ‘the internet’ because she attempted a dire rap about ‘shizzles’
and ‘nizzles’ threatening to drop ‘the bomb.’.
The only bomb that was dropped was one for common deceny. Clearly this, THIS, is the corrupting influence of hip-hop. Yo indeed, madam!
Andy Love? Me hate!
Next up was Monica Offlebaum, who on the surface presented
herself as your typical, run-of-the-mill German Spiritualist but in-between her
entirely predictable clichéd lines we associate so well with the German Spiritualist
poetry-form where the most brazen of subtexts about sex as if we’ve never herd of sex
before and should all be amazed that sex
is a thing that happens. Get over it, Ms
Offle-BORE. Ha!
Taylor Han completely
misread the audience’s insistence on left-leaning socially right-on poetry
designed to challenge the social order.
Instead their attempt to throw their support behind a certain cranium-rugged
American dictator-to-be was a misplaced misrepresentation of what The People
really want. For shame! Did people right poems about Genghis Khan in
1206? I very much doubt it!
Geneva Rust-Orta. It was quite poetry is it? Was it?
Could it? You haven’t quiet got
it, have you? Just saying funny things
isn’t quite poetry is it? Your
performance wasn’t it, was it? No, it
couldn’t be. Just try and get it, next
time.
Arthur
Fisher’s inability to finish his poems was quite simply proof that current
artists lack the inability to complete things which
I would
suggest, in future, Ms Gardner
focus more on her Hard Noise projects (of which I am a rotundly severe fan). Her last EP was suitably hard, like a bodybuilder
eating burnt toast whilst reading Crime & Punishment and I am looking
forward to her next musical expenditure.
Her poetry was never going to be as groggily stimulating as her blog.
James
Rotchell’s piece lacked a certain something
The final ‘poet’,
so-called ‘TJ’
couldn’t write ‘poetry’ if he asked the ‘audience’ for ‘suggestions’, took
those ‘suggestions’, formed those ‘suggestions’ in his ‘mind’ and then put those
‘suggestions’ together into a string of words ‘which’ came ‘out’ as a ‘poem’.
As for Mr
Simpson (aka ‘Dan Simpson’) the
so-called host I want to know weather in That London they allow men of such
forthwright forthwrightery to be that close to a microphone.
As for the
judges, that Mr Singleton
was as drunk as a Lord, and I should know.
Mr Dean seemed more concerned
with giving scores than actually scoring gives.
That Henry Raby, however, made
some valid points and I have since re-evaluated my stance on Tories.
I trust in
future all poetry events will consist or either booking former, current or
future Poet Laureates or at the least
the entire line-up of the Latitude poetry stage.
Yours sincerely
A. T. Slam
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