Another FESTIVAL APPLICATION and y'know I just wanna punch innocent or defenseless animals afterwards...
But during, ah during the torturous writing of this application, I want to stab with a capital STAB,
stab and stab and keep stabbing with the rustiest fucking scissors I can find, that fucking arsehole you wrote this application form, stab the person who after eight other perfectly obnoxiously facile questions like how will I explore the possibilities of performance then expects seventy five words (or less) from me about how will I, infact, be "innovative in the use of space"
I'll be fucking innovative in the use of this space by kicking your ART-WANKER fucking arse all the way across it, before hanging you by your scarf from the rafters and painting my self portrait in your blood underneath you. INNOVATE THAT! You utterly pointless fuckheaded malicious little pricks!
You wanna talk innovation, and I just keep reading the same bafflingly empty questions. Buzzwording around me, but let me ask you: how many hoops must a man jump through before you can call him a MOTHERFUCKER whose had enough of dilettantes holding court letting positions fill people instead of people fulfilling their positions, motherfucker?
Innovate... and coming from you the word reeks of the same stench that that greasy neanderthal failed human being turned shaven-ape emits, the one I used to get standing in my way as a teenager telling me I ain't gettin' in -not wearing those shoes, the very shoes I just wanted to cleat-stitch to his damn face with all the blunt forced trauma of a performer who DOESN'T HAVE AN ART DEGREE, and decades and lays later I don't line up dress up show up or shut up for shit any more and I back the flack into those years, that I should left the damn line queue before that collection of miss-assembled gene pool stagnant watered-down features posing as a human face, could arrange itself into enough of a coherent collection of activity to sneer back at me after I said, FUCK YOU AND YOUR CLUB ANYWAY.
am going home.
when I tell you what a waste of space you fuckers are understand,
my afternoon has been fuckheaded banging into walls, that seem to be all your application is actually made out of and...
Know that I know, just as much as I let bouncers knew I hated them too,
Yes I'm procrastinating
yes it in a decisively non-innovative way to go about it
Yes I would have it done by now if I wasn't
yes I'm turning this into a poem!
yes I know they won't let performance poetry into an performing arts festival unless I rock up in the emperors new clothes
yes I know it's just the lingo darlings... oh darlings because
I'm sick of pencil neck hamster dick arseholes expecting performance poets like me to try and do the act of trying to get through the gates by dressing up as the one half of the horses arse that I AM NOT clealry and do this so badly because that's not what I was here to do, just so I can be stopped, searched and found to be the fraud pretending to be -innovative- in a way you demanded I try and be to line up here in the first place, and turned around anyway.
I am saying remonstrating-ly appalled and simultaneously exhausted... with you and your artistic demerits.
fuck your questions
fuck your festival
fuck your space
fuck knows I know when I'm not wanted
anf fuck me dead don't ask me why you don't see poetry in more festivals
fuck your applications
fuck your funding fuck your mum fuck your face
and fuck it, its getting late.
Yes I should stop agonising over it
yes I know writing this won't help.
Fuckheaded...yes I made 'fuckhead' into a verb...
How's that for innovation?