Those of you who know me would know that I fucking love living in this city. Something will be open 24hours every night - even if it's just seveneleven - the booze is cheaper and it's full of boys who look like girls and girls who look like boys. Oh, and leather shoulder bags, of course. But unfortunately living here comes with a whole lot of wank, as well.
I previously mentioned a poetry night that I thoroughly enjoyed. It's a new stream of skinny-jeaned boys I never thought to discover. Unfortunately, I was half-dragged, half-convinced-by-free-booze to the launch of a new magazine called steamer at a store under degraves street that I never knew existed. Anyway, we had some drinks and eventually the poetry started flowing.
Someone actually got up and did a poem of hand gestures called Escape from Coverband Island, that involved them gesturing the kiss symbol, the ac/dc symbol, shaking their head a little and putting their hands out like a cyclist about to turn. I thought poetry was about shaping phrases and ambiguity. Metaphors and similes and shit. Otherwise I would have got up and signaled YMCA all through high school. The thing that really irritated me is that everyone stood there, surrounded by jewelry labeled as 'trendy, edgy jewelry' laughing at this poem as though it actually had something constructive to say about like 'society and shit'.
Maybe I don't understand his poignant take on the state of coverbands and signaling cyclists these days. Maybe he's attempting to create his own postmodern poetic aesthetic that transcends written discourse, but if he was he would be better of doing it without a straight face.
In the future, I think I'll stick to horny gays.
Sorry Luke (if you're reading this),
Evilboy.
No comments:
Post a Comment