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.

Avril 26, 2017 Kate Noakes


Kate Noakes is our featured poet  @ L’Openbach  on 4/26/2017 along with Carrie Chappell. Noakes will be reading and selling her new book Paris, Stage Left, Eyewear Publishing, 2017.

I am a poet, short fiction writer, novelist and elected member of the Welsh Academy.
My published poetry is as follows:
Ocean to Interior, Mighty Erudite, 2007.  The Wall MendersTwo Rivers Press, 2009.
Cape Town, Eyewear Publishing, 2012.   I-spy and Shanty, corrupt press, 2014.  Tattoo on Crow Street, Parthian, 2015. Paris, Stage Left, Eyewear Publishing, 2017.

My work has also been widely published in magazines such as The North, Poetry Wales, Mslexia, Planet, Poetry Ireland Review, Iota, Envoi, The SHOp, Magma, The Wolf and Poetry Salzburg Review, and in the UK national press. I have performed at venues as diverse as The Troubadour, Glastonbury Festival, the Poetry Society, Nottingham Poetry Festival and Henley Literature Festival.

I was founding President of Paris Lit Up, a not for profit literature organisation in the City of Lights in 2012.

I have degrees in Geography, and English Literature and a MPhil in Creative Writing and have taught creative writing for Oxford University and the Poetry School. My current practice is focused on contemporary culture and environmental matters.

For more info: boomslangpoetry.blogspot.co


Penelope: identity theft

I chose the hardest fibres
to strip my skin
jute, copra

to slice the whorls
from my fingertips
hessian, raw flax.

I am weaving lead.

Forth, back
the shuttle flies
the cloth wefted red.

Right, left
the pedals tread
my legs, my legs.

Sundown, yards done
well, not yet.
I sink on my bed
my head, my head.

The clamour from
the waiting boys too much
“Wed me.” “No, me instead.”

In darkest night
I cut the warp and pull
unthread, unthread.

My new skin
pricks with dread.

Avril 26, 2017 Carrie Chappell


Carrie Chappell will be our featured poet  @ L’Openbach  on 4/26/2017 along with Kate Noakes who will be reading and selling her new book Paris, Stage Left Eyewear Publishing, 2017.

Carrie Chappell is from Birmingham, Alabama. She earned her Bachelor of Arts at the University of Alabama and her Master of Fine Arts from the University of New Orleans’ Creative Writing Workshop. She has taught English Composition at Delgado Community College and served as Writer-in-Residence for Big Class. Each April, she facilitates the Verse of April project, a community catalogue of voices celebrating poetry. Currently, she lives in Paris as an English Language teacher and French Studies student and serves as Poetry Editor for Sundog Lit.

for more information: http://www.carriechappell.com/


6. once,

i// was a girl

to this day,

i// can be
on the subject
of canoes, camp-
fire songs, rope,
kindling. listen,

5. i// want to go away.


another breath, another bemoan—love
is an always crisis.         corn was never my credo,
so i// never went wishing for someone there.

you know where. i// cut a rug and ran into a
tapestrie. there joined the campaign, the
circus. i// mean, i//
began caring, became


minded. a careless. fucking joy-lover. joy-

digger. oh joy. ode.    odious.         oedipus.            i // think we are blind, that the directions to our best
regions are lost in our eyes. joy. is held in a sweaty
palm or in a green field of (ode to) soy. don’t listen. don’t look

for someone. for somewhere there. don’t go looking for it.
i// swear. it’s better to get lost on the little stuff.
to take the helm
of a candy bar. like. take me for instance,

a girl
at heart, wanting, what (?)
only a cookie
and to use my


4. from what i// remember, i// do know, do now

—bees do run
from snapping
fingers, snakes
from ground-
stomping, and kindness

above all, humility, too.—


you pointed me
down a trail. gosh,

thank you,


3. for pointing the way

to the future—

an american girl has options. a girl scout no less. has options, is what they’ll say.

and the dreams will ignite. and for some paris. for paris some
will ignite.

how to live it:

version 1: be a woman’s woman, but live for men, love the ones you’re with but also the far-aways. spend your time. telling everybody you miss them and then eat your blues in baguettes. own jewelry but wish to accept more, be bi-lingual curious! be baby-sitter swank! stomp the ground for snakes. wait for scooters, the kiss, the la defense legs, be ok with champagne pictures until. until. (*dream referred
to on most paris blogs.)


version 2: be a poet, ok, maybe just a writer, hang yourself up on homonyms, find yourself often taken with simple French rhymes: dommage chômage! dommage fromage!, be happy being cute for French men for a week until feminist moods set in, then find a new one, snap your fingers at the proverbial bees, be a functioning drunk, functioning introvert, try to break the stereotype.( *dream deferred, citation:
too difficult.)


i// think that’s it.

2. so, they shut me up in booze—and

i// am, i// professed, a troubled
roamantic—i// fit your—i//am the
daguerreotyped. as when a little
girl moves to a dream place,
calling yesterdays into—like

everybody i// sat upon a table, eating
mixed meats. everyone stood in my
way. and i// felt a friendly nothing. i //

had my tools—a set of earrings
succinctly wed to my lobes, a pair
of pants that blacked with every black,
and a you, distant person somehow
made into the criminal so i// could stand

away, spewing forth my jesus christs
just enough to make a small religion,
just enough to cast iron the long
breath of my short history. go. go forth, for christ’s sake forward, i// said

to myself, hither filth, fortune.

1. there, here—

with my planets arestin’ and my
chambers full of speech, i// lie
still in the thought of my many
shelters.          i// have fallen

where i// fall

and wandered out, a girl pulling
at her wet shorts tight and
knotting at the crotch. being
stranded wasn’t near as bad as
i// had thought, i// had lived and
tamed a many a thing. glares
more genuine exhausted in
their ravines, where trees
stand like old men, lampposts        poles to be
vaulted and i // a girl

scout sashaying where
bees grip
my ankles, picking with honey
spines the flesh i// i// i// storm(ed) in.

jacklyn janeksela 3/25/2017


jacklyn janeksela is our featured poet  @ L’Openbach  on 3/25/2017 along with Rethabile Masilo.

jacklyn janeksela is a wolf and a raven, a cluster of stars, & a direct descent of the divine feminine. she can be found @ Barrelhouse, Thought Catalog, LunaLuna Magazine, Talking Book Three Point Press, DumDum Magazine, Visceral Brooklyn, Anti-Heroin Chic, Public Pool, Reality Hands, Velvet-Tail, Requited Journal, The Feminist Wire, Word For/Word, Literary Orphans, Pank, Split Lip, Landfill, Yes Poetry, feelings, Heavy Feather, The Opiate, Potluck, Vending Machine Press; Civil Coping Mechanism anthology A Shadow Map & Outpost 19 Rooted anthology; & elsewhere. she is in a post-punk band called the velblouds. her baby @femalefilet. her chapbook fitting a witch//hexing the stitch forthcoming (The Operating System, 2017). she is an energy. find her @ hermetic hare for herbal astrology readings.

mental texting to the universe & beyond




why do i have to keep telling y’all

that my bones are your bones


the world:


some of us hear you, but most out here sleeping


the rest


the world


as any cricket

gnawing away


the tiniest




Rethabile Masilo 3/25/2017


photo by Sabine Dundure

Rethabile Masilo is our featured poet  @ L’Openbach  on 3/25/2017 along with Jacklyn Janeskla.

Africa’s song

–for Geoffrey Philp
The ancients never suggested death by fire,
being consumed by it, dying; the unbearable
reach of the bible, its dark truth; that was no fear,
nor were boots on our pavements. We were death
in another way, fire was not needed for our dying.
On a pathway or in the house everyone who died
was the kingpin of their kingdom, a forebear caught
between dogma and the meaning of Jah. But yesterday
was besieged by the chronicle of today, on pyramidal Nubia,
on turrets of Zimbabwe, which were turned into face-
less rudiments. Yet there’s a song to put all this behind
and that song, if you listen to it, inspires in you.


–from Qoaling (to be published in 2017)



Rethabile Masilo blogs at Poéfrika and co-edits Canopic Jar. He is a Mosotho poet from Lesotho and has lived in Paris, France, since 1987. His work has been published in various anthologies as well as hard and soft-copy magazines, including Canopic Jar, The Bastille, With Our Eyes Wide Open, Seeing the Unseen, Tears In The Fence, New Coin, New Contrast, Botsotso, Badilisha Poetry, and others. In 2014 his poem ‘Swimming’, published in New Coin Poetry, Vol 49, N°1, won the Dalro First Prize. The same poem won the Thomas Pringle Award for Poetry in Periodicals in 2015. He has also edited two anthologies published by The Onslaught Press: For the Children of Gaza, and To Kingdom Come (voices against political violence). Rethabile was born in 1961 in Lesotho and left his country with his parents and siblings to enter exile in 1981, following an attack on his family that killed his 3-year-old nephew, Motlatsi. They moved through the Republic of South Africa, where they experienced Apartheid, then Kenya and the United States of America, before he finally settled in France. In 2012 his first book of poems, Things That Are Silent, was published by Pindrop Press. The second book, Waslap, was published in 2015 by The Onslaught Press (it won the 2016 Glenna Luschei Prize for African Poetry), and the third, Letter to Country, was published by Canopic Publishing in 2016.

Khalil Anthony 1/24/17


Khalil Anthony is a poly-math. A multi-disciplinary artist working within varying mediums and media. His work investigates the relationships between the spirit and space, the black body, sexuality, and society, and the urban experience. Weaving together these artistic intentions through writing, dance and movement, acting, painting, arts-admin, education, and song; his work speaks to a diverse audience and varying communities.

Originally from Chicago, IL., he considers himself a writer primarily, and sees his writings as a vehicle to exercise his performance abilities and diverse organizational skills. Anthony recently published his first novel, Frederic Leon, simultaneously creating a publishing company, Urban Folk Books, which published Frederic Leon last year. He is currently producing a stage production of the themes in his novel, as well as finishing the script for the film, Frederic (2015).

As a musician, Anthony’s music is featured in an Emmy award winning broadband series entitled, Satacracy 88. His latest music project is entitled, train, UrbanFolk Music Project (ASCAP). As a singer songwriter, Khalil has penned two cds (urbanfolkmusic 2007, train 2013), and produced 2 tracks off of his lastest music project, train. His highly anticipated remixes with Scott thatmanmonkz will be released in 2014 under Shadeleaf Music in UK.

His writing can also be seen in Marc Bamuthi Joseph’s highly acclaimed hip-hop theater production, Word Becomes Flesh. Khalil Anthony has toured for the last three years with the Living Word Project, and Word Becomes Flesh. Anthony also serves as the Educational Director for the tour.

As a self-proclaimed galactic-artist, Khalil Anthony shares his talents throughout the world, making art honestly.


Athol Williams 1/24/17

I enjoy experimenting, trying things, trying ideas. This is how I learn.  I love creating.  And so my writing is experimental creations of poetry and social philosophy.  My poetry leads my pursuit of understanding just as imagination leads my efforts in social development. My scholarly and creative work explores structural processes and social institutions that may put humanity on a path to greater harmony and I delve deeply into the prospects of a new (or renewed) human consciousness that might make us all evolve to live larger, fuller lives. I focus on the actions that may lead us to greater socioeconomic justice in South Africa and elsewhere – this work includes business ethics and corporate governance.
I am currently a graduate student in political philosophy at Oxford University.  My graduate work explores the plurality of agents of justice and the background conditions under which economic institutions have a responsibility to act as more-than-secondary agents.  My professional background is in business, mostly in corporate strategy and finance.  My academic background is varied – political theory (LSE), public administration (Harvard), corporate finance (LBS), business (MIT Sloan) and engineering (Wits).  I draw heavily on this background in my academic work.  I am a member of the Scholars and Practitioners Network for the CSR Initiative at Harvard.
I have published 3 collections of poems and 2 children’s books (see BOOKS)   I have a passion for reading and education personally, and I recognise the vital role education plays in the pursuit of freedom and human development, hence my involvement in social change through education.  I co-founded Read to Rise, an NGO that promotes youth literacy.
I grew up in Mitchells Plain, Cape Town, and I’ve lived in Johannesburg, Boston and London.  I currently split my time between Oxford and Cape Town.
More information in PUSHING BOULDERS, my autobiography and on Wikipedia