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[This is probably not in the spirit you had in mind Saveloy, but is the only connection I could make, so . . ]
1992 Mike Tyson in NY - poetry man
Scene: Hammond organ, leslie grind, like whirlpool swirls a reggae "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves". Bunny Boys with stretchers into the cavern seats profer shots of this and that. Hefner babes in royal blue, tanned as olives, breast the ropes, do the watusi slingshot and announcer microphone (hand held on wire string descends) buzzes down as H-grade celebrities, holy women, computer hackers, the flirterati - in the best seats in the converted airplane hanger -wait " Laydees and Gentalmen - for the first time, here tonight, live from his successful tour of East Africa . . .Miiiiiiiiiiiike Tiiiiiiiiissssssssooooooooon."
Lumbering into spotlight, the poet-priest, everlasting shorts, Montegeo sweat bands, steadies before the mic. swings into it like Kerouac trying to seduce a wasp synthesiser:
"I'd like to begin," the audience dims, "with "Gravity Gravy." ". The ront row section 5, the Dallas chapter of the Society for Peyote Cuisine, mumble and swwon - its right up their alley:
: Coming down for air
going up for taste
Flesh and gravel . . .
Tyson is down, knocked out by a bullet, the ref jumps in , starts the count, Tv cameras pull in, wind up, disseminate, upload, whack!
Everyone goes home, tells grandkids about the chocolate hucksters there at the poetry meet. Tyson survives, assasin escapes.
Now turn your textbooks to page 47,832.
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