I will get back to my feelings about the various Manchester International Festival events I went to. I promise.
But last night was another Bad Language event, the monthly literary open-mic night held at the Castle Hotel. It's run by lovely, talented, kind people and many talented and interesting people read their stories there fairly regularly. It's always a fun evening, and last night, I actually remembered to not only bring my voice recorder, but also to turn it on!
(Bad Language folks: If any of y'all want me to record your stories next time, let me know!)
So, here you are, a little story about Atlanta... and a little "found" poem about flat-hunting.
Listen to them here
Because my voice recorder is a little bit crappy, which is to say, it's held together by duct tape, it sounds to me like it missed a crucial word in the poem. Here are the words, for those who might be interested:
Catherine: Monica Grove 1B 1530
Howard: Talbot Road 2A 1600
But the one guy who was there
wasn't wearing a shirt
was listening to awful dance music
and didn't turn it down.
Not a home.
More like a student flat
per Mackenzie Road, with more
obviously objectionable occupants.