Thursday, July 05, 2007

The Gladstone Hotel, Scream Literary Festival launch

Caucasian male, late 60s, standing at a podium, wrestling with a limp mic. He turns to one of the many pink page flags, in stark contrast to his all black ensemble, and reads.

un, Dennis Lee (House of Anansi Press)

Page 27:

Ex-
tinction warmup dues: feel the
mindmeat resist.
Pre-necro hush, bombbalm to the planet but
yip yap yip go the ostrich curs of the brain.

Bite down on un-
tology.
Nuzzle the brink of extremis.


I'm listening, I swear. I know my pen is poised but I'm willing my musculature into line, to put the pen in my mouth so that my fingers will stop twitching. I succeed, the pen bouncing between my lips, my teeth and tongue finding the groove of the cap, rolling it like a log driver. I spit it out and put it on the table, right-angle flush. I finger the edge of a magazine, drawing it closer. I grab the pen and write on her forearms, one word each. Because while I'm trying to stay with his words, they're carrying me to my own.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

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