The Poetry Brothel reminds me of Darren Shan’s book series “The Darren Shan Saga” in which the main action takes place within (as the title of the first book says) a “Cirque du Freaks”. What caught my attention when I read the books was, how the author mixed anomalies with paranormal powers. The story’s main character being a guy who is transformed into a half-vampire, but among the Cirque’s members you have a woman who grows a beard, a girl with a monkey tail, a guy with snake skin and many others.
The Poetry Brothel has, for me, in a subjective manner, the same kind of air and spirit, as if you walk into a completely different world, which tomorrow will disappear (since it’s constantly moving) and you will kind of make a fool out of yourself, trying to prove to others the unearthly beautiful and curious things you saw there.
So what is The Poetry Brothel exactly? It’s a kind of event about poetry which includes real performances and bizarre acts, in a way in which makes you forget completely about the reason of why people gave up meeting and reciting poetry. You see, it’s not just about hearing someone sell out his soul while reciting words, it’s about living within that poem and the performance, that’s what this “brothel” does.
The brothel’s “Madame” presents her cast of poets as whores and each one of them has his/hers own unique persona, which is why to me it resembles to some kind of new freak circus (this is, of course, a compliment).
Also, it doesn’t stop here “The Poetry Brothel’s is an immersive cabaret, offering a full bar, live jazz, burlesque dancers, painters, and fortune-tellers, with newly integrated themes, performances and installations at each event.” as stated by them.
The characters within the brothel are both males and females, local or international and are always seeking submissions from new potential poetry whores. So if you are willing to become a fantastic character you always regretted in not being, because of our society and the limits imposed by reality and have a sweet tooth and talent for poetry, or any other kind of art really, you can send them an email.
The Poetry Brothel has many branches and today we shall meet “The Management” from left to right.
She was conceived, but never born. Writing on the walls of centuries with the quiet of her loneliness, until something heard from outside made her change her mind.
She stepped out of the womb like a nude from a painting and even if Hollywood was calling for her, she preferred to wander wild plains.
After she laid her lovers down in the fields, she would flee in the night, leaving their pockets empty.
“Everything you need know of this woman, she can see – slathered all over your forehead in brilliant, black ink.”
We only know of him, what we could piece together from bathroom walls, american folk songs and the names he shouts in his tormented sleep. His poems speak about the darkness of days in caves and crumbling houses “the exhaust of men and ancient machines, Crimean lips and the shipwrecks he has scavenged”.
He finds his place not to be here or above, but somewhere where he is found with a shovel in his hand
or a tiller. We presume that nothing but a spell or enormous dept is keeping him here and he will read you, ’cause he’s traveled many lands and much more people – at ease in darkness and happy to find you there toward some perfect wound, enclosed in a painful blossom.
The Master of Ceremonies and pretending to be somebody else while singing and writing Haiku.
Born into each of the three rings she fell as if a corner of the sky has ruptured and damned her to grow beneath circus tents, held by some strange gravity. She orbits the rings and curls among tigers in the night, lost in a dead town and awake only for the “four gypsy days when the big top rises and the light from her eyes reminds the world it is a living thing”.
Raised on the dances of contortion, Cosette flung from a trapeze and held a horse’s mane with her teeth and nothing else at six. Yet, she tries again to fall into reality: the soul-measuring and necromancy. But still, the white cats whisper “turn back into yourself sister, leave this walking cage of skin,” – she remains until the next town where she’ll tell the portion of a man’s soul (probably the next is yours), running her hands along the shape of his skull.
She leaves coded notes in pillowcases – her body exists here but is fueled only by what remains from last night’s concessions: “ a faded grip of glitter, ten drops of sweat, and blue blue saltwater“.
He sidled his way up to the Madame one fine evening, with a mischievous glare. Whatever he’s suggested must have been good as he’s been handling the girls ever since.
They say: ” Watch out for this one. He’ll take your money and only leave you with a good time. “
Stay tuned for the next article about The Poetry Brothel!
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