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.
A. T. Slam