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Performance
By
Andrew Lander, May 5, 2007
I had no choice. I was desperate to keep my job.
Being one of two poetry reviewers for Poetry These Days wasn’t easy. I was put on. Because the editors had tried their luck once, they knew they could get away with it time and time again. They would send out a couple of books in the post and would expect reviews of a few hundred words apiece before the week was out, and there was always the perfunctory note: ‘I’m sorry it’s a rush, but I know you can do it,’ sort of apology attached by way of a post-it. Consequently, my reviews were little more than mere summaries of the constant themes that ran throughout the collections with the odd nugget of brilliance thrown in.
The last package I received hit me like a bombshell. With the usual two slim perfect bound volumes of poetry poorly designed, came a flyer for a poetry reading they were organising later that month. It was hastily set up and by the tone of the message scrawled on a yellow post-it, they expected my presence.
Setting up this performance was their way of popularising an as yet unknown, untried poet who they believed in, together with some other poet whose name I have long forgotten. It was to be held in a small theatre in Central London. I really didn’t want to go, neither did I want to shell out fifteen pounds and train fare for some embarrassing experience I knew I would later regret.
It took an hour to reach the venue by underground, followed by a short five-minute walk through empty streets. When I arrived I showed my ticket and walked in. Steve, the organiser of this get-to-together, and founding editor of the magazine was sitting in a corner with his wife. They were blissfully happy drinking coffee. “So, you’re the one who reviewed my collection,” he said. I nodded, and let him continue talking. “I owe you a drink,“ he said. “Hardly.”
His wife, though rather short, was an attractive blonde, and I wondered what the hell she was doing with this tall, balding, weasel like looking man. If I had been told he had AIDS I wouldn’t have been surprised. There‘s obviously something alluring to a woman about rough, shoddy looking poets. I guess the homosexual Auden must have broken many a woman’s heart, even with a face that looked like a screwed up ball of newsprint. “I hope you enjoy the show,” he said, as they rushed off to greet the performance poet who appeared and looked as though he’d just wandered in off the street and had no better place to go.
I found myself a seat a few rows in and lit a cigarette. I guess when the lights dimmed there must have been a grand total of around sixteen people in the audience, and this probably included the patrons. I think I would have found the whole experience nullifying if it wasn’t for a beautiful, slight, fit looking brunette hadn’t chosen to sit in front of me. She smelt wonderful, a heady mix of freshly washed hair and expensive perfume.
The performance, which turned out to be no more than a rambling monologue, punctuated with flashing lights and sound effects culled from the BBC’s sound department, lasted nearly twenty six minutes. I was glad it was over. The second act never turned up, so the show was mercifully cut short. The girl in front loved it. She turned and said, “Wasn’t that wonderful? He’s so god damn talented.”
“Do you think so?” I said.
“Sure. I’m just an out and out poetry whore. I’ve got to have him.“
“Have him?” I said.
“Yes. I just adore poets. I’ve fucked Laurence Shiver, David James, and I nearly slept with Helen Woolf, but she wouldn’t swing.”
I laughed out loud. “Wouldn’t swing!”
“Yeah, the bitch.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Not only was I talking to one hot woman, she appeared an easy, free lay.
“So you make a habit of screwing poets?” I said.
“Oh yes. I’ll fuck any poet after a performance.”
“Just poets?” I asked.
“Of course. I’m attracted to their dystopian worldview. There’s something so sad about poets, and their poetry. They are so sensitive to their surroundings. It just breaks my heart to hear them pour out their souls. I feel this need to console them with my body.”
“I write,” I said.
“Do you…?” she said, leaning in close. “…Write and perform poetry?”
“No,” I whispered. “I really only write short fiction.”
“Pity.”
“But I have written some poetry.” I said, and started to recite a pastoral poem in her ear, a poem I’d written at school.
“Good God! That’s awful,” she said.
“I’m a little rusty.”
“Well, I wouldn’t give up your day job,” she said, and got up.
She brushed my aside like I was a fly that had landed on her shoulder. She lost interest in me the moment I confessed to writing fiction, like it was an inferior and worthless pursuit in comparison to the spoken word. I couldn’t believe it. I felt I was so close to getting laid. That an incredibly beautiful woman could be seduced by earnest outpourings of misery and clever word play was beyond me. How on earth could she prefer Ali Griffiths to me? I was better looking than him. I had broad shoulders and a perfectly chiseled six-pack from lifting weights and training in the martial arts. It's like asking a woman to pick between Bruce Lee and a hairy, cake eating Chuck Norris. Or if you prefer a more modern take, how about Jean Claude Van Damme, the muscles from Brussels and that shitty actor in Samo? There’s just no comparison.
I sat back down and lit cigarette. What I needed was a beer.
Steve came onto the stage and duly announced that they were offering a specially discounted, once in a lifetime offer on the poet's first, slim chapbook of poetry entitled Lie With Me, which was available in the foyer for ten pounds, together with a recording on cassette tape of the same piece he performed for our pleasure this afternoon. He also announced like it was some huge fucking deal, that the poet would be available for a short time to sign copies for free.
Shit! How the hell was I going to get out of here without wasting any more money?
The girl I was chatting to was already out there snuggling up to him like the slinky pussycat she was. I swear I could hear her purr when I approached the table.
And what did he write? Thanks for the support, Ali Griffiths.
Yeah, his words were as sincere as I would have been if he’d confessed to having hemorrhoids.
Leaving the theatre I sought the nearest pub. It started to rain. The world looked ugly and sullen. The people around me looked uglier still. I tossed the book and tape in the nearest bin. I’m too soft. I must toughen up.
To think, there are people out there only too ready and willing to pay to hear that clown’s performance, and some women prepared to spread their legs for a little spoken anguish, made me smile.
I knew from that moment on as I lit a cigarette and ordered a second pint, I was heading for a new career. I just needed a stage.
Andrew Lander is a thirty-six-year old writer of funny, lewd stories. He openly admits they are often absurd, but it's what makes him laugh. If he has a dictum, it's this: Life’s funny. You don’t have to act. He can be contacted at his e-mail address.
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