25 juin 2017 Lara Stapleton


25.6/2017 Lara Stapleton, Bruce Edward Sherfield, Ana Seferović & Kirsty Allison will be reading @ Tennessee – Paris 12, rue André Mazet 75006 Paris (France)

Lara Stapleton is the author of The Lowest Blue Flame Before Nothing, a Pen Open Book Committee Selection and an Independent Booksellers’ Selection. Her poetry, essays, and stories have been published in dozens of periodical, including the LA Review of Books, Ms. Magazine, and Glimmer Train. She co-edited two anthologies, Thirdest World (Factory School) and 25 Very Good Stories (Soft Skull Press). She is now at work on a television project about antebellum New Orleans. Born and raised in East Lansing, Michigan to a Filipino and Irish-American family, New York City is now her home.

Excerpt from new work:

“My friends have become brilliant with insult. They speak of his hands and his urine stream. They call him demoralizer-in-chief, cretinous. They are finding obscure terms from the Norman rule of England, these are writers, after all. They call him the Performance Artist, they pun with words for ass and bowels. They mock his hair and his orange tan and his butt-mouth and his penis. 19-kinds of stupid, and bad smelling. They notice he’s made his daughter first lady (an abuser never wants to honor his wife). They mock his small vocabulary. We are appalled, indignant. We are more of a we…everyone on my social media says “we” meaning all of us who think this is wrong, every shade of us. We like the CIA better than we used to. We think Nike and Coke, those flesh-eating monsters, with their multi-culti commercials, are on our side. Alliances in a game of thrones are anything but noble, they are only cunning.”




25/06/2017 Bruce Sherfield

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25.6/2017 Bruce Edward Sherfield , Ana Seferović & Kirsty Allison will be reading @ Tennessee – Paris 12, rue André Mazet 75006 Paris (France)

I’ve always been an UFA, an unidentified flying artist, dividing my career between dance, acting, songwriting, rap, composing, collage, voiceover, and his biggest passion: the written word.

I have a BFA(Biggest Fluke of ALL?) from the University of FLorida in collage, painting and performance.

I’ve done the music thing with bands like Spontane, Versus and Sophia Lorenians, at many festivals like Rock-en-Seine, GaroRock, even the TV show One Shot Not. Too many albums to count right now…

3-time co-editor/designer of the Bastille Lit Magazine of SpokenWord Paris, and co-host of a weekly writing workshop at Shakespeare & Co. since 2011.

In 2014, I gave my voice to the documentary, ìVoyage en Barbarieî which won numerous international awards, including the Albert Londres.

In 2015, I taught poetry/slam/hip-hop to young writers for the US Embassies in the Congo, Senegal and Niger.

In 2016, he was invited to Conques to give an art-therapy workshop against the trauma of torture.

He collects typewriters and donates them to kids and writers and his first sci-fi novel is almost dans la boite!


One Soldier’s Logistics of Trenches

(counts his breaths)
“One day,” a soldier says to his mates, “a man invented this soap but it didn’t work so well. After you washed your hands, the blood was still there. So this man invented a special shampoo that made lots of suds. It smelled so nice as it seeped through your skull, as it cleaned out the mind and whatever happened to be on that mind at the time. It seemed to make a difference.”

(Shovels and bowls are passed out)
“A real difference,” he continued. “It washed away the sound of bones opening, the far cast on bloated faces, the loss of undergarments, and remember I told you that nice aroma the shampoo had? Well, that aroma also could dry up a trickle of bile, calm a heaving stomach, or deafen the spray of cholera hitting the bucket.”

(Crouches. Finds a man’s billfold.)
“One could lose count of the bodies, strewn like wet leaves in a park, half-frozen neighbors no longer of any concern. This shampoo was more than fantastic. It worked like a miracle—lack of recognition of a friend, Ah! This is the baker, who’d put warm bread in everyone’s hand. It’s funny. That same bread is now in some corporal’s belly. You see, I can’t recall the baker’s name, but I still smell the dough, though. Tell me if you find his arms.”

(pats down a mound)
(rinses face in ice-cold cistern)
(Shares towel with the others)

“Use it in the day, but sparingly,” he said. “Share the magic! We dig and burn again tonight.”

25/6/2017 Ana Seferović


 25.6/2017 Ana Seferović, Kirsty Allison & Bruce Sherfield will be reading @ Tennessee – Paris 12, rue André Mazet 75006 Paris (France)

Ana Seferović, Belgrde born writer, has written three collections of poetry: Duboki kontinent (Deep Continent – Matica Srpska, 2000), Beskrajna zabava (Endless Entertainment – Narodna knjiga, 2004) and Zvezda od prah-šećera (A Star Made of Icing Sugar – Association of Writers and Translators Pančevo, 2012).

Her poetry has been translated and published in many languages.

2015 saw the publication of her collaborative poetry book The City (published by Auropolis) with English poet Alice Maddicott and The Travelogue of The Car Boot Museum (published by Somerset Art Works).

She is also the co-author of two published and staged plays.

She is involved with international web-based poetry platforms as one of the editors of Supernovapoetry.net and Dirty Confetti and is currently engaged in numerous cross-over art projects in collaboration with various musicians and visual artists.

She lives in London.

“I am a writer and a textual artist, with a long history both in performing my texts and finding ways how to materialise them in a space and in different audio/visual media.
Writing comes first and then thoughts about what does it mean to read/perform a text, to exhibit a text, to connect with the audience in a space and what are the ways I can capture images and sounds that a text is creating leading from contemporary text and video/sound layers to the roots of ritual and magical power of integral unity of the word, sound and vision.”


From the manuscript “Mothers”

first you would hear the
metal garden gates
a loud bang
and then her high-heels
smashing the concrete
with the power of a CEO
causing a tight mixture
of anticipation, anxiety and
a weird feeling of guilt

for no obvious reason-

mummy is home

with suitcases full of
sweets for children
and nicely packed
stories for grown ups

oh those mothers
oh mothers mothers

tough blondes in charge
of surface mining
of men digging
/he is alive, he is well,
he is inside
earning, producing/

mothers not interested
in children
producing children
producing clean sheet,
serving food

serving entertainment

there was no entertainment
no entertainment

once she was offered a
house in a holy land
she refused it
she didn’t want to live there
she said it was too flat and
there was no birds

flat pancake of the holy land

no not for me sir

she also said that in some
countries, where she was
on her business trips
there was no cotton pants

you had to wait for your
turn to buy them

with your bare bottom?
children would ask chuckling

and that in another place
women had the longest legs
she had ever seen
and they were drinking
for a medial
smashing their long bony knees
on old cobbled streets

she tried eels
and frogs
and snakes and jelly
like desserts
drank martinis
and black russians
and white russians

and fly airplanes

where lunches were nicely
packed in a plastic tray

(she would always bring little
satchels of sugar and salt
and plastic cutlery with the
logo of the airline home)

and that in some places she
was followed by an agent
who would tell her if she

had gone too far

you always have to go too far
to understand
the cold drinks
the cold war
brown drink cabinets

we all went too far

( that morning on her 37th
birthday she looked at
herself in the mirror
and finally understood
that weird expression
on her mother’s face
she noticed as a child:

I observed her from her window;
she was thin
always looking like a
girl from a faraway
good bone structure
people would say

now in her memory, it
was always sunset
roofs tops and tree tops
sinking slowly into the
sticky apricot sunset jam
everything was just
floating there

and her mother
floating there too



smoking like those cowboys on
horses riding off into the horizon
smoking like those french stars
in their convertibles, curving
above the mediterranean
smoking like a free woman
lingering in a bar, ready
for some new loving
like a secret agent

like bond, james bond

that was how she looked to her
puffing those hours
and hours away
floating in warm sunsets
but her weird expression
was always a mystery
until that morning, when she
saw her own face in the mirror:
swollen eyes, endless boredom.

yes, that’s it!

her mother was bored.
and that was a special kind
of elaborate boredom
boredom of a factory
worker who decided he would
stay forever in a factory
he didn’t like
who decided that every
day would be the same and
not quite satisfactory
but that every day
would be familiar
and that was good enough
not the boredom one feels
when there is nothing to do
this was boredom where
everything was boring
the very essence of her
universe was boring
this apricot sunset
just materialised
reassuring boredom

she understood her
mother’s face now
and she loved her
more than ever

around the place where
she was smoking
a circle of cigarette buds
was spreading like
an upside down halo
like a little stage
waiting for her to come back
and conduct yet another
magnificent sunset of thrills

25/6/2017 Kirsty Allison


 25.6/2017 Ana Seferović, Kirsty Allison & Bruce Sherfield will be reading @ Tennessee – Paris 12, rue André Mazet 75006 Paris (France)

Kirsty Allison started writing for London’s style press as a teenager, having a band with Irvine Welsh, and getting awards for radio documentary and independent film. She works across disciplines, with art shown internationally, performing alone, opening for bands, and aside Dave Barbarossa (Malcolm McLaren’s drummer protege from Adam and the Ants). She edits Cold Lips, and the arts on DJ Mag. Her debut collection of poetry, Unedited is handsewn.

“Sexy and talented, what’s not to like?”- Murray Lachlan Young
“If you want to see what’s ahead of the cool curve, look no further”- Hardeep Singh Kohli
“Kirsty Allison is the most rock n roll poet living in London”-Kelli Ali
“She’s a modern Patti Smith” -Johny Brown, Band of Holy Joy
“Her poetry is the only that gives me goosebumps” – Delilah Holliday, Skinny Girl Diet
“Wordsmith wizardry”- Adam J. Harmer, Fat White Family
“She’s good” – Doctor John Cooper Clarke
“Always ahead of the zeitgeist” – Irvine Welsh

Fete of Perversity
At the Fete of Perversity
Kardashians, cut the ribbon
It was an inspo-quote university
manipulating biddable malignancy
A spectacle o
Art Deco sunshine filters
an Insta-speriential souk
smashed it
And Bush n Blair dribbling
AK47 air guitars
And holographs of Nixon n Kissinger
on drums
At the Dawn of uncivil war
Come come come to the
Merkel Mercedes auction
Shoot shoot shoot
Lucky shot Trump
Guess guess guess the
Gold bullets in a bottle
Rose petal oud
Monsanto tombola food
Drakma.  Dollar.  Euro. Royal. Riyal. Out.
Roll up
Roll up
rubber grenades in your skin
DLT riding a baby mammoth on a plinth
Titanium tanzanite tails to
Platinum camels and donkeys
and ten tonne snails
It’s a Coney island badtrip
Freak shows and weirdos and psychos
Murdoch whip pans
Drone focussed
Paid for this content
The robots
Over Gaza
The terror-drome eggshell bullseye
The quiet
The peace
The people
The megalosaurus
Climbing a flagpole
and Theresa Maypoles
and melting and fracking
and hating and
And bureaucrating
media Jet Stream Rainbow
Over Yemen
And Mosul and Ukraine:
Naked kid writes apolitical songs
freedom fighter
Your brain
Ping ping pow
Take Captagon
So good
So fast
To Die
So Young
On Diamond shattered screens
Ride aside
With cats
Eye flicks
And Brats schtik
Range Rover bomb
amber sky
Ammo fired
Gunfire cried
Displaced Ants ran
Birds sang
Boats sank
Horror songs
Howl dog
FGM Rape scream
Snoop snoop bang
The infadels stopped dancing
Dropped their drinks
Couldn’t think
Vertically distributed smiles
Legs hung from the mic stand
Silver jewellery fell to the floor
An arm was on the curtain and a shoe was in the door…
Blood already lay on the floor
Colonies had risen, been defeated
Jesus, Mohammed, defied
The board of Idolatry paused
In a reign of flames
carbon soaked atoms
Every stall burning off
Oil backsheesh
splitting and shitting the world
into lazy divides
Social media lockdown
Connections finished
Data cached
For chips
In heads
To help you remember
Rebels sold hashish cookies
spiked with death
To Putin
Old money Crusaders
Sanctioned chocolate
city waders
Patented cures,
for spells bound by
Against lizards
Scales down
Never swept up after
Arrows of judgement shot from the clouds
Held in Boston and Oxford
The vloggers and bloggers
Styled as Refugees in burkhas
bribed mouths
pouting in
sanitised mud cleanser faces
They’re cool – called the magazines
In exchange for dough
And artists
Indexed superstructure
Or bombed
Red card
I’m Calling it:
We fund
this rescheme as
brand Fans
crazy and stupid
As Fran Leibovitz said:
the best died
And still, the fete of perversity
will not give in to terror:
Workers march
Loafers lunch
Cake thrown
Roll up
Roll up
Only show on earth.