Poetry and Sausage and Incest, oh my!

Roses are red / Violets are blue / Dont fuck with my beer

Roses are red / Violets are blue / Don't fuck with my beer

You’re going to die. This, my friends and enemies, is a motherfucking fact. So you might as well be there when it happens. Or so say Ned and Andrew, who together manage the FREE and monthly You’re Going to Die poetry and prose reading currently held at Café du Soleil in the Lower Haight.

Previously it’s been held at Mojo Bicycle Café, and before that, Ned’s living room. But neither of those spots are as good as Café du Soleil, basically because it is right around the corner from Rosamunde and Toronado, and nothing clots your arteries more effectively than sausage, beer and poems about incest. And not your typical daddy-fucking-daughter incest. But brother-fucking-sister incest.

Is the poetry good? Well, yeah, it’s good when people hijack Keats or some other famous poet that I’m not even going to pretend to read. (I don’t read Keats either but I think maybe I saw his house once when I was in Italy. That motherfucker had a dope spot. I thought poets were supposed to be poor?) Often the poetry is bad. Occasionally it’s fucking terrible. Sometimes it’s beautiful. Always it’s a whole lotta fun. Always it’s a whole lotta FREE too.

One of the regulars is some sort of National Poetry-Slam Champion or something like that. I wasn’t really paying attention. My listening skills are terrible. But remember that only pussies go to open mics to listen. Get your broke-ass up there and read something. It’s a rush, and you’ll probably fuck up, but that’s OK. Because one day you’re definitely going to die. So you might as well have some fun in the meantime, and like I said, it’s a rush. Kinda like crank but you get to keep all your teeth. Unless maybe you make one too many incest jokes and somebody knocks you the fuck out.

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