There are words that stick with you. Some that have, not that I particularly want them to:
The day after the performance, one thing just niggled. It had been the lead up to a sketch in the middle of the set, where you’re meant to ask the audience to randomly provide a word and a sentence. The word would be the title and the sentence the first line of a ‘poem’ that would be made up on the spot. One member of the improv group would do the talking, their arms folded behind their backs; another member, their hands on either side of the first, would provide the gestures to punctuate the delivery. It’s designed to be flippant.
Can anyone give us a title?
The Wasteland, one man calls from the back.
Well, there’s a poem that already exists. Anyone else?
The Wasteland, he repeats with a certain smugness. Continue reading