How was I to know, the invitation to a poetry reading was a posh affair?
Thought it was the usual thing with sausage rolls and warm red wine.
Felt as the poor relation to the royalty of poetry, sensed I was ignored,
no one looks at anyone who has made a tailoring error. I had a couple
of poems on a folded sheet in my beloved jean´s jacket, just in case I was
asked to read a poem or so – pure vanity, had two glasses of wine before
the séance started but only two, three my inferior complex awakens and
I tell people to piss off. Just before the show ended and an actor had read
poetry of a famous dead poet, I was asked to read….I did, but was met
with griping voices. The poem was about rich, pretentious ba*tards who
thought poetry was a parlour game, the organizer cut me short. Later in
the bar, the actor thanked me for my reading, thought it daring telling my
truth about this kind of recital. More drinks, later that evening I had to find
a taxi for the actor and I had to go back to find the posh accent he had lost
in the bar. He was a working class as I, but had gone to acting school and
had the face of a lord, or the way we think a lord should look like.
The poor actor was never invited back, he swore in the bar, nor was I for
that matter, but we can live with that.
