Tamara Stidwell Performing at "Light Tahini Open Mic" Brighton скачать в хорошем качестве

Tamara Stidwell Performing at "Light Tahini Open Mic" Brighton

"Avocuddle" We all need to eat avocados, But more specifically have them in our life These vegetables are edible, incredible, indelible, And if I wasn't a monogamist, I would make one my wife. My avocado affair first began at the beginning, And from then on, It’s been win-win, you just keep winning When I peeled back the back of that sublime legume, I could feel a sensation, like the giving of a womb. That greeny-yellow inside like a setting sun, That round and mottled stone, the bone of where she’s come, The texture that keeps giving, so soft it strokes the soul, I knew I needed filling, now I’ve found my Avacado-hole. Guacamole had come before, perhaps that was the gateway drug But as soon as I had her whole, I knew I’d found my veggie thug, And when my Avocaddiction began, it simply wouldn’t stop, I added her to salads, now she’s a ballad -what a crop! Avocados come in all shapes and sizes, but I’m not one to pick, Don’t be picky, enjoy the nutrition of all her bruisey bits, If you dabble in the dappled, or the slightly mis-shaped You often find them sweeter, and more riper to the taste. Like an Avoca-dodo, she is the one and only, I always keep her in my pocket, my legume is never lonely, A quick bite of herbaceousness, a tickle to the tongue, I don’t avo lot of worries, now I av found my one. **** "If Brighton Was a Man" If Brighton was a man he’d be preoccupied Every minute of the day, with life, with Brighton hype and being on time. With what’s going on and fear of missing out, Checking the Daily Metro for his sign. He’d ask himself, am I cool enough, am I trying too hard, I’m too old for the level but I’m not Stanmer park. If Brighton was a man he’d be rushed, Checking his watch and straightening his suit, Running down churchill square for the 25 Bus, Kisisng his lover who lives in the boot Of his car, because they both can’t afford Hove rent And he’s balancing three jobs One at the Wick inn where he pours pints of Harvey But he’s sometimes at BIMM, singing instrumentals on Charlie, Knocking on friend’s doors, Brighton would be arrogant and funny, Ripping his tie at the pub, night before. Massaging his moustache as if he’s made of money. Slipping down to the cliffs to get high and neurotic, If Brighton was a man, he’d be slightly quixotic, To his parents who live in a bungalow in Patcham He’d be slightly feminine, yet Edwardian With lovely brass knobs He’d be a cheeky syringe, an awful thing Beside a vegan hot dog. If Brighton was a man He would be so beautiful some days That you couldn’t believe, under the Level’s sweet trees There he was, meditating near Prince Streets Pademonium Busking beside rows of geraniums, With the summer sun shimmering on his easy going brow, And the dancing horses on the merry-go-round. As he lay on the shoreline From Hove to Rottingdean As he flouted up from the pier, Like giggles on the breeze. He’d be the soft bay, with chalk white eyes, He’d be the end of the day, a sweet deep sigh He’d be the beauty of a City that bubbles and ebbs Brighton would be the man who was always a friend. If brghton was a man, he wouldn’t be , He’d be pronoun-less He’d have feminine mystique Replaced by transvestite pastiche And masculine disease burped away in a moijo. He’d be go-go, and stilletto, and let me falsetto, He’d kiss lipstick kisses up Georgian table legs, And play piano with no arms, Rain would be brighter in Brighton By his embracing rainbow arc. If Brighton was a person, they’d be welcome He’d be jamaican flavours whispering round the lanes, And creole calling out from jerk chicken flames, He’d be Albania, Romania, and Columbia International jazz nights at Casablanca. Fish and Chips and Turmeric Burgers and Quinoa and Tesco Value Crab sticks. If Brighton was a man he’d be high on cocaine Back for the weekend on the London train, He’d be the life and soul of the party, He’d be the long walk of shame. He’d be the Brighton Fringe, and poetry of trauma, The Drunk Labour leader down at Speakers Corner. He’d be the bus driver with a love for punk rock, He’d have sussex down breasts, I360 Cock. If Brighton was a man, he’d be all of this and more And you’d be so sick of him For being so neurotic, so encapsulating So wried and tired and fried from the nineties. So on the go, so alone, never ending So full of vibrancy and freedom and promising charm, With a thousand pound watch on his graffitti arms. So chisseled his jaw that juts into the ocean, Spilling out from doors you can’t contain his emotion, He is fresh and exciting, he is capitalist rotten, But you’ll keep coming back, you’ll keep coming back Because he is Brighton, not so easily forgotten.