The Cousin Venice Film Festival Party: Poet Spy on the Wall
Villa Laguna
Sandro Gallo 6
Lido Venezia
4 September 2017
to music played by DJ Versini
So now I’m just landed in a seaside garden, a complimentary glass of prosecco at hand
and Venezia at my back,
industry agent of Ilaria (festival journalist extraordinaire),
there are people who know one another and I know not one of them
and suspect that the cinematic budget who paid for my drink is
inside the curtained salon at supper, at a long table, in
the dining room where everything is white
by day, the brightness would hurt your eyes
by night, the water of the lagoon soothes green-grey
out here the spots on the medium centrepiece tree alternate red-pink-green-blue-fade yellow
and somewhere above street-side big bats scoop their own evening feast from the dark
the dj is lighting things up, fingers are dancing on
keyboards of mobile phones, scavenger-appointed
gulls skim the breeze and land to bob in the pools of gloaming
at 10:40 late here comes a long-blonde denim-suited off-shoulders hoodied ten-year-old roaming
bored shitless, flown the dinner coop, possibly a film star’s daughter,
not being paid attention to well enough
with this much strutting listless poise and
less direction than the seabirds, till she heads
determined, back into the salon
on a mission, feels like a cue as a vague
breathy hue drift-flips off the waves
it is an off-party in an on place
it’s what you make of it, encapsulated in candid snapshots, heralding these ones’ day in the sun
as the bored photographer flashes a smile on to do her job, they back against the photo-op backdrop
it’s a thumbnail caught in this display box of words, a report for Ilaria written, an exhibit, wing tips pinned
EXIT accredited journalists and poet hackers
envelope scrap parchment
Ends.
The Cousin Venice Film Festival Party: Poet Spy on the Wall
Villa Laguna
Sandro Gallo 6
Lido Venezia
4 September 2017
to music played by DJ Versini
So now I’m just landed in a seaside garden, a complimentary glass of prosecco at hand
and Venezia at my back,
industry agent of Ilaria (festival journalist extraordinaire),
there are people who know one another and I know not one of them
and suspect that the cinematic budget who paid for my drink is
inside the curtained salon at supper, at a long table, in
the dining room where everything is white
by day, the brightness would hurt your eyes
by night, the water of the lagoon soothes green-grey
out here the spots on the medium centrepiece tree alternate red-pink-green-blue-fade yellow
and somewhere above street-side big bats scoop their own evening feast from the dark
the dj is lighting things up, fingers are dancing on
keyboards of mobile phones, scavenger-appointed
gulls skim the breeze and land to bob in the pools of gloaming
at 10:40 late here comes a long-blonde denim-suited off-shoulders hoodied ten-year-old roaming
bored shitless, flown the dinner coop, possibly a film star’s daughter,
not being paid attention to well enough
with this much strutting listless poise and
less direction than the seabirds, till she heads
determined, back into the salon
on a mission, feels like a cue as a vague
breathy hue drift-flips off the waves
it is an off-party in an on place
it’s what you make of it, encapsulated in candid snapshots, heralding these ones’ day in the sun
as the bored photographer flashes a smile on to do her job, they back against the photo-op backdrop
it’s a thumbnail caught in this display box of words, a report for Ilaria written, an exhibit, wing tips pinned
EXIT accredited journalists and poet hackers
envelope scrap parchment
Ends.
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