Poetry. Sleeping with men. Or man. Or Irishman.

I got completely sucked in by an accent. Again. First the Greek, then the Indian, then the Irishman. But this time, the question is, "What does one do when wants to do Poetry professionally when one has slept with someone who lives upstairs from the Poetry bar location?" I guess the answer to that is that one stays away for a period of time, creates a choreographed sword dance to a Kate Bush song, and then goes back again to listen until it is time to perform such dance/poetry fandango. I guess.