Written in a bar in Bratislava

Leopoldstadt

Let's suppose sufferance helps.

Around here even the sunshine looks false. Its deceitful rays fall upon the decadence as it burns itself out over the space of a few short millennia. They fall upon the king's plastic crown as he dances like a bear for an unseen master- for change. Boys laugh at the spectacle. The disdain in their spit is matched only by the hot hate in his tears. Yet his dance continues. He cannot do aught else. He paid the piper too high. He paid him fuck all. At least he has enough for cigarettes. When it comes to filling the void translusive substances always fit best, filling the gap without widening the cracks. They connect the space instead of expanding it like the ghost of time. The lack thereof. The only way of coming to terms with that missing card in the flush is to acknowledge it. Checkmate stares us all in the face. Lady death has the ivory piece to topple our game in her long fingers- appearing out of nowhere as if they crept out of the mirror. She's just waiting to make the move. Maybe she's nervous at first.

I keep on walking . I turn the corner. Beautiful horses stand there. Beautiful for show- hideous in its way, eyes blinkered, ears clapped. Caparisoned. My heart pangs with sorrow. Maybe melancholy helps. Why else would we feel such a delicate emotion? The soft sister of rage.    

Dominoes

winsomely

Winstanley catches his breath

'jus' a lickle small death'

he says

in the space between

the nothin' mo'

&

nothin' less

When The Wind Blew Right Through You

You heard it here first folks

that old song that's been playing since the dawn of man

as old as anything

and fresh as a rip in tights

that hole exposing the flesh beneath the dark fabric

we heard what it's all about

in the soul of sol y sombre

and from the cheap seats lit candles

not to forget the book

of the laconic erotic

written there in blood

that I saw Death reading

detailing the old song of longing

knowing the author's words won't return
except for in the mouths of others

a horse in fishnet stockings

a horse in fishnet stockings appears in the condensation on the window
it turns into a wolf
she sure looks lonely
my companion discusses his thesis on the raping of God to death
while white steam from black coffee rises up
past postcards on the pillar
of tiki girls backdropped by red
with dreams just like anyone
smiling mechanical smiles
who must be very old now
maybe even dead
or definitely dead
definitely maybe
the library book in my pocket becoming another day overdue
another day
within days upon end upon end

Musical Boxes

poster by Edward Kastin : http://edwardkastindesigns.co.uk/

ripping yarn

Kitty likes Eyeball
Eyeball likes Kitty
Kitty loves the scratching
Eyeball loves the pain

shachlitz

PaperMoon productions present

Musical Boxes

an evening of three short plays by Samuel Kastin at the Rosemary Branch Theatre May 31st, June 1st and 2nd

BLANCHE.  Where's my heart!?

STELLA.  She means her jewellery box. It's heart shaped.

A Streetcar Named Desire

  There is a word in a dying language, shachlitz. There is no equivalent word in English but the concept it denotes is a useful one. A friend of mine, one of the last speakers of this language, part of the generation that will take it to their respective graves, once translated it to me by describing its meaning; he said it means one box of meaning opening up to a deeper box of meaning. He said, "Picture in your head a square getting smaller and smaller as a circle inside it gets bigger and bigger and bigger. Now imagine opening one box only for there to be another box inside it identical in every way except for its diminished size. You carry on doing this to a point of almost ad infinitum until you get to a box so minuscule that you can barely open it but when you do you reveal a huge mountain inside of it. This is how I imagine the mountain found its way to Mohammed." Ladies and Gentlemen these are our musical shachlitz, listen carefully, we are clicking open their brass clasp, the gears in the musical machine are beginning to whir, the dancer is starting her spin…

Down The Line

Trapped in a life of procrastination Kydd longs to break out. Will he be able to get his act together before the curtain falls.

Directed by John M. Wilson

The White Crow

They say that every crow is capable of hitting the notes and sustaining the harmonies required for birdsong, but that they choose not to sing. They say that birdsong is not in their nature. However, once there was a crow that sang.

A dance piece choreographed and directed by Stephen Pelton

Yesterday Half A Century Ago

The story of The Little Drummer Boy and The Little Matchstick Girl told in the still of an evening approaching the end of the day when all that there is left are memories.

Directed by Samuel Kastin

book tickets here

http://www.rosemarybranch.com/index.php/programme/87-musical-boxes