Dallas Athent will read on 09. 03. 2018

Dallas Athent is a writer and artist whose work has been published and/or profiled in At Large Magazine, PANK, Buzzfeed Community, BUST Magazine, Packet Bi-Weekly, Luna Luna Magazine & more. She’s a board member of Nomadic Press. She has two books published titled Bushwick Nightz (fiction) and Theia Mania (poetry). She lives in The Bronx with her adopted pets.


Bushwick Nightz 

Talking Paper Interview

21. 01. 2018 Helen Cusack O’Keeffe

Helen Cusack O’Keeffe, Cecilia Knapp & Matthew Silver will perform new works and improvisations beginning 18hr on  21. 01. 2018 @ Tennessee Bar 12 Rue André Mazet, 75006 Paris

Helen Cusack O’Keeffe is a writer and maker of things to wear or put on your walls. Her fiction has been published mostly in journals and anthologies including The Bastille, Strangers in Paris (Tightrope Press) and Gods, Memes and Monsters (Stoneskin Press) Her plays: The Terrible Mystery of Ophelia Dupont-Cassé, and Napoleon, Femme, Rhinocéros featured in the Montmartre Dionysias of 2014 and 2015, Holey Tuscany in various fringe theatres in 2017 and 2016. Based in Paris for many years, she is also prose and art editor of Paris Lit Up magazine, decorator of the Poetry Brothel and Farmer-in-Chief of Surrealist Fashion magazine Le Farming Times. As Madame PomPom de la TourAwfful, she creates Surrealist clothing and styles photo shoots with photographer Jean-Baptiste Rivet, who took this shot of her above, in a dress she made from baguette wrappers.

Paris Lit Up Anthologies
Paris: New Writing Inspired by the City of Light

21. 01. 2018 Cecilia Knapp, Helen Cusack O’Keeffe & Matthew Silver

Cecilia Knapp, Helen Cusack O’Keeffe & Matthew Silver will perform new works and improvisations beginning 18hr on  21. 01. 2018 @ Tennessee Bar 12 Rue André Mazet, 75006 Paris

Cecilia Knapp is a writer, performer, theatre maker and poet.  Over the last few years Cecilia has headlined at some of the UK’s top poetry nights. She’s performed on stages at festivals including Bestival, Secret Garden Party and Wilderness. She’s also taken work to the Edinburgh Fringe as well as internationally and shared work at the Cheltenham Literature Festival where she was guest curator in 2016.  She was  an artist in residence at the Roundhouse, where she spent a year on their board as a young trustee.  More recently she’s been artist in residence  at Pimlico Library creating work with the community. Her poetry has been played on XFM, BBC Radio 1, BBC Radio 4, 5 LIVE and 1Xtra and she has featured in Vogue, Dazed and Jungle magazines. She was recently commissioned by BBCiplayer and the TATE Britain. Cecilia delivered a Ted X talk at Warwick university on the theme of creativity and healing. She has received a substantial Arts Council grant to write and develop her own one woman spoken word theatre show ‘Finding Home’, an exploration of loss, mental health and womanhood,  directed by Stef O’Driscoll ( Kate Tempest’s ‘Hopelessly Devoted’). This has recently been published by Burning Eye Books and has toured the UK extensively. She writes for theatre and is currently touring a devised experimental theatre piece ‘Rear View’  with Yorkshire based company I.O.U. She is writing her first novel. Her debut collection of poetry will be published in 2018 by Burning Eye Books.

Cecilia has been described as ‘mesmerising’ and ‘totally gripping.’ Her writing has been described as ‘light as a birds feather’ (Lyn Gardner) and focuses on the poetry in everyday life, experience and human interaction. She believes writing and sharing stories to be transformative and uniting.

Alongside performing, Cecilia regularly facilitates creative writing and spoken word workshops in schools and youth centres in London and the rest of the UK as well as internationally. She’s also worked in libraries, prisons, hospitals, workplaces and theatres delivering workshops to a wide range of people. Cecilia believes wholeheartedly in the benefits of creative expression and how it can be transformative. She’s chaired panels at the London Festival of Education and the Roundhouse’s Last Word Festival, discussing the importance of creativity in the curriculum. Alongside writing, performing and teaching she co runs a poetry, comedy and music night which raises money and awareness for  C.A.L.M (The Campaign Against Living Miserably) .The charity aims to reduce the silent stigma around depression, mental health and suicide. Cecilia believes that writing and creativity can contribute to reducing this stigma and can have a hugely positive impact on those suffering or affected.






21. 01. 2018 Matthew Silver, Helen Cusack O’Keeffe & Cecilia Knapp

Matthew Silver, Helen Cusack O’Keeffe & Cecilia Knapp will perform new works and improvisations beginning 18hr on  21. 01. 2018 @ Tennessee Bar 12 Rue André Mazet, 75006 Paris

My role as a clown, trickster and village idiot is to parody excessive seriousness by playing with taboos, rules, and social norms.  My inspiration comes from my heart.  I perform for smiles and laughter, loosening people’s armor, and opening up a portal for imagination, creativity and love.

Some people see me as a raving lunaticpompous “artistic” hipster, or attention-starved 9 year-old, but people don’t consciously understand the role of a clown in society. Read between the lines and you will start to see things from a different perspective.  By breaking down boundaries, I provide you, the viewer, with permission to open your mind and realize it’s okay to act silly from time to time. We may trick ourselves into believing we know everything, constantly striving for perfection in a society that requires a civilized, job-holding, serious individual.  We cannot be perfect.  If we allow ourselves the chance to be flawed perhaps we can let the obstacles humble us, rather than make us rigid.  In the end we can let our guards down to attain our most basic need of giving and receiving love.

Meet Matthew, The Pacifist ‘Clown’ Who Brings Burning Man To NYC. Created by Nicolas Heller from the No Your City series.

For more info’ check out Matthew’s website Man In White Dress




Jason Stoneking 17. 12. 2017

17. 12. 2017 Jason Stoneking will read new works and perhaps some of his older books as well.

Jason Stoneking is an American poet, essayist, and performing artist based primarily in Paris. He has authored two volumes of poetry and four collections of essays. He has also written screenplays and rock music, moonlighted as a chess commentator, and staged numerous performance art pieces. He has been performing his art and writing for more than 25 years, at venues ranging from the main stage at Lollapalooza to the Pont Neuf in Paris and the rooftops of Cairo. He is currently working on a series of unique, handwritten, bespoke books. He is awestruck by the sky, but skeptical of authority.


I was sitting on the quai the other day, in the sunshine of a summer afternoon, watching the beautiful Parisians arrive along the Seine with their picnic baskets and bottles of wine. I was basking, feeling peaceful, digging the warmth of the sun on my face and the magic sensation of being sustained and nurtured by the universe. But then it hit me. The light of day itself is the blinding illusion, the thing that fosters all our silly, self-important human arrogance. When darkness falls, it may be harder to see some things, but it’s easier to see the great big truth in the sky: how small we all really are in the grand scheme of things. In the daytime, it looks very much like there is one tremendous sun that hovers in the sky just for us, keeping an eye on our health by making sure we have just enough warmth and light, like the keeper of a delicate flower bed. But at night, we become tiny, helpless, insignificant. We can suddenly see that there are hundreds of thousands of suns, that the entirety of what we know about accounts for a submicroscopic portion of what’s really going on out there. Most of us don’t like the sound of that, so we simply try to pretend it’s not happening. We devise euphemistic ways to discuss the majesty of the night sky. We think of stars as objects of romantic mystery, and we charge the poets with dreaming about what they mean and turning them into inspirational lyrics about the greatness of the little human thoughts that flutter around down here on earth. But then we must try not to notice that this task is actually killing the fucking poets. It’s making them dive screaming from the bridges and drown themselves in absinthe. It’s making them thrust their weary heads into ovens and pray for the refreshing disorientation of syphilis. It’s making them convert to disgustingly small comforts on their deathbeds just to assuage the ferocious terror of cosmic irrelevance. When the sun comes up again, it’s like a momentary reprieve, a phone call from the governor that comes just as we’re being marched down the windowless hallway of time. It whitewashes all the insinuations that had danced so cruelly between the constellations just hours before. It gives us another day to erect the pretension that we’re all in the middle of amounting to something. But then, in the evening, it’s time to get a drink, time to close the curtains, time to take your psych-meds and curl up with a book. Prepare yourself for what’s coming. Stare at the tv and convince yourself it’s still daytime if you can. Luckily, if you’ve got a halfway decent job, they usually don’t expect you to work at night. Most people aren’t expected to even function. They are expected to sleep. And those who are up and about are traditionally found in the nightclubs and bars, busy with the work of steeping themselves in cheaply distilled intoxicants.

It is said that depression and suicide rates soar in the arctic winter, when there are months of uninterrupted darkness, and that makes perfect sense to me. How could there not be an outbreak of existential panic? What with everybody getting such a good long look at the uncomfortable size and scope of things. Maybe that’s why most of us prefer to close up shop at night and go to sleep until the daylight returns. We can’t stand too much exposure to that thing of which the night gives us a vague but harrowing sense. It’s the thing that sends the bears into slumber for the darkest months, the thing that the crickets are crying about, the thing that blinded the bats, the wisdom that the wise old owl knows: that we are all tumbling headlong through space, and the light keeps going on and off, and nobody’s controlling the switch.



Dimitris Lyacos 17. 12. 2017

Dimitris Lyacos is the author of the Poena Damni trilogy (Z213: EXIT, With the People from the Bridge, The First Death). The text in its current form developed as a work-in-progress over the course of thirty years with subsequent editions and excerpts appearing in journals around the world, as well as in dialogue with a diverse range of sister projects it inspired—drama, contemporary dance, video art, sculpture installations, photography, opera, and contemporary music. So far translated into seven languages and performed worldwide, Poena Damni is one of the major examples of postmodern literature in the new millennium and the most widely reviewed and best-selling Greek literary work in translation of the past decades. The second English edition of Z213: EXIT appeared last year while the second English edition of The First Death and a new French translation came out last month.


Excerpt from  Z213: EXIT (Poena Damni vol. 1) 

Translated by Shorsha Sullivan. Second Revised Edition, Shoestring Press 2016.

A few hours more, station, deserted, a dirt road leading into the town, mud, mud, blankets outside, mouldering corrugated houses, the shattered pylon further behind, not even a car, rubbish, two children setting fire to a heap, two or three other fires on the horizon, houses, the smell even more acid, tarmac pieces and pieces, concrete block houses, few people, half-open doors, half-light, the mattress as if it were soaked, that milk, the cramp in the stomach and dizziness, when I awoke, I hurried to make it before it got dark, a little by chance and from what I remembered, asked questions, the other side, back to the bridge, murmur of water, trees turning black but I could still see, it was in front of me almost as soon as I entered. What are you doing here, sit for a while beside you, if you could also back then, did someone bend over, hear you while still you were heard, your eyes that were gleaming, eyes growing dim, pain growing dim, with how many more did they bring you, the bell, silence as they lowered you down, stifled song and a pause, murmur of water. I am cold, I walk away through other names, photos that look at you and yet they cannot, the sun now again at its end. On the road back, on the plain, a tepid, breath, like the last, and a gleam, the river falling behind, the town mute as before, with some wine on the end of a table, the Bible being erased, between its pages the words of a stranger, among his pieces I write wherever I find a no-man’s land.


Cecilia Llompart 03. 11. 2017

On November 3, 2017 Cecilia Llompart will read new works with Poets Live.
Cecilia Llompart was born in Puerto Rico and raised in Florida. Her first collection, The Wingless, was published by Carnegie Mellon University Press in the spring of 2014. The recipient of two awards from the Academy of American Poets, Llompart’s work has been included in various anthologies and has appeared in journals such as Gulf Coast, TriQuarter!y, The Caribbean Writer, WomenArts Quarterly Review, and Clockhouse Review. Most recently, she has served as guest editor for an issue of Matter: A Journal of Political Poetry and Commentarythemed around the subject of displacement and displaced peoples, and serves as chair of creative writing for The Blue Ridge Summer Institute for Young Artists, interned for The Paris Poetry Workshop, and founded New Wanderers, a nomadic poetry collective that sponsors poets on long term travel projects.

Do Not Speak of the Dead


“They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we were seeds.”
—Mexican Proverb

I was born among the bodies. I was hurried
forward, and sealed a thin life for myself.

I have shortened my name, and walk with
a limp. I place pebbles in milk and offer

them to my children when there is nothing
else. We can not live on cold blood alone.

In a dream, I am ungendered, and the moon
is just the moon having a thought of itself.

I am a wolf masked in the scent of its prey
and I am driven—hawk like—to the dark

center of things. I have grasped my eager
heart in my own talons. I am made of fire,

and all fire passes through me. I am made
of smoke and all smoke passes through me.

Now the bodies are just calcified gravity,
built up and broken down over the years.

Somewhere there are phantoms having their
own funerals over and over again. The same

scene for centuries. The same moon rolling
down the gutter of the same sky. Somewhere

they place a door at the beginning of a field
and call it property. Somewhere, a tired man

won’t let go of his dead wife’s hand. God
is a performing artist working only with

light and stone. Death is just a child come to
take us by the hand, and lead us gently away.

Fear is the paralyzing agent, the viper that
swallows us living and whole. And the devil,

wears a crooked badge, multiplies everything
by three. You—my dark friend. And me.

(as featured on Poets.org)