Datura #3 | 04_2019 BLEVINS – BOUISSET – DOCTEUR BURZ –
HENRY
O’NEILL
–
HOUSSAM
–
POBO
WILKENS – YOUNG
–
–
MODELY POUSSIN
– –
Aux éditions Urtica. Déjà parus Civilisé cherche à tâtons dans le noir, la moiteur, la profusion des corps, sa nature perdue et ce jusqu’à l’excès et la turpitude. Cathy GARCIA, La cause littéraire, 2017 8€ (plus frais de port) - 42 pages noir & blanc, couverture couleur ISBN: 9780244324759
Cette poésie est loin d'être sombre, même quand elle n'est pas drôle. En tant que lecteur, j'ai l'impression que le gars qui l'écrit rigole tout le temps. Et du coup, cela m'amuse aussi. Patrice Maltaverne, Poésie chronique ta malle, 2018 textes de Necromongers, illustrations de Pascal Dandois 6€ (plus frais de port) - 26 pages noir & blanc
These poems lay themselves bare, rejecting the false comforts of easy and joyous connection. Steve F. Klepetar, from the foreword 8 € (plus shipping) -54 pages noir & blanc ISBN: 978-0-244-10516-7 Commande chez urticalitblog@gmail.com Paiement via Paypal avec l’adresse wruhlmann@gmail.com ou par chèque à l’ordre de Walter Ruhlmann, 11 rue Gilbert Salamo 11510 Fitou – France
Contents | Sommaire
Cover illustration | Illustration de couverture: Tunnelling mud crab in Nelson Haven by Pseudopanax
Docteur Burz: editorial Gabriel Henry: Une anecdote et Heure cassée Mark Young: Patently Absurd and I Could Only Hope Murièle Modély: Chair de crabe Fabrice Poussin: Hand Grenade, Silent Scream, Rain Drops in My Head, Paper Cut, and Opus Mundi Ken Pobo: Delicious Susan Blevins: Gerald & Jane Peter O’Neill: Doorways Laurent Bouisset: Gérard Jugnot dans Fight Club et Cassavetes et Cassis Harry R. Wilkens: excerpts from Piss Talks Léonel Houssam: extrait de Notre République
Datura #3 | 04_2019
Editorial Lettre aux Français… quand ton cul commence à sentir la bite. par le docteur Burz publié le 19 janvier 2019 dans Les déraisons du docteur Burz https://ledocteurburz.wordpress.com/2019/01/19/lettre-aux-francais-quand-toncul-commence-a-sentir-la-bite/
Chères Françaises, chers Français, chers cons de patriotes. Dans une période d’intermittence et d’internement comme celle que nous traversons, vous devez vous rappeler qui vous êtes. Des gros cons. La France n’est pas un pays comme les autres. Chez
nous,
ceux
qui
font
(encore)
l’effort
de
travailler
financent les miettes des enculés qui ont arrêtés. Chez nous, un grand nombre de larbins paie un impôt sur ce qu’ils produisent pour
enrichir
l’état
et
les
multinationales.
Chez
nous,
l’éducation, la santé, la sécurité, la justice sont en voie de vous renifler le cul avant d’être privatisés par le gouvernement. Les
difficultés
de
la
vie,
comme
le
chômage,
peuvent
être
surmontées, à quatre pattes avec du beurre vegan. C’est
pourquoi
la
France
est,
de
toutes
les
démocraties
totalitaires, une des plus apte à garantir l’évolution dégradante d’une inégalité forfaitaire. C’est aussi une des plus libres, puisque chacun est protégé dans ses droits (enfin il vaut mieux être riche quand-même, c’est plus
facile)
et
dans
sa
liberté
d’opinion,
croyance, de philosophie et de mépris.
2
de
conscience,
de
Datura #3 | 04_2019
« Comment ne pas éprouver la fierté d’être Français ? » ? BFMTV, ma chaîne d’info personnelle d’actualité en fait la preuve chaque jour, mettant les chiffres et les avis plutôt pour moi à rude constat. Blablabla, blablabla, blablabla*… *Cette ambition, je la partage. La société que nous voulons est une société dans laquelle pour réussir on ne devrait pas avoir besoin de relations ou de fortune, mais d’effort et de travail. T’AS COMPRIS BORDEL ! DES EFFORTS ! DU TRAVAIL ! ET TA FORTUNE POUR LE CAC40 ! C’EST POURQUOI J’AI PROPOSÉ ET JE LANCE AUJOURD’HUI UN GRAND DÉBAT NATIONAL QUI SE DÉROULERA JUSQU’AU 15 MARS PROCHAIN. Et très sincèrement, ma lettre de lèche citoyen s’arrêtera là. Je dois vous le dire mes chers cons de patriotes, je ne vois pas en vous la possibilité de réformer et renverser sereinement le pays de sa mort certaine. L’autre jour j’ai été aux chiottes, c’était plus productif. Fini la solidarité à 2 balles, si vous n’avez pas compris que je suis un gros zonard à qui profite la frime du dividende. Évidemment,
je
me
fais
fort
de
vous
entendre
et
de
vous
écouter, même si vous n’avez pas crié assez fort sur les rondpoints. Je vais quand-même pas gaspiller 4 pages pour tenter de vous offrir l’impression que vous aurez gain de cause. Certains disent de moi que je n’ai jamais travaillé, que je n’ai fait que capitaliser pour des actionnaires trop gourmands. A
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Datura #3 | 04_2019
ceux-là, je leur réponds : « Et toi ? T’as fait président à quel âge connard sans chemise ? ». Je vous pisse à la raie les nécessiteux ! Pas capable de se responsabiliser sans noyer la moitié de son « sous le seuil de pauvreté » au PMU du coin ! Traverser la rue vous demande déjà un effort
considérable,
je
ne
voudrais
pas
ajouter
à
cela
l’impression de devenir quelqu’un à ceux qui ne sont rien. Mais je m’égare les tafioles, je reprends : Ce débat devra répondre à des questions essentielles qui ont émergé ces dernières semaines. C’est pourquoi, avec notre grosse pute de Gouvernement bien ficelé, nous avons retenu quatre grands thèmes
qui
couvrent
beaucoup
des
grands
enjeux
de
la
Nation
auxquels vous ne pigez que dalle : la fiscalité et les dépenses publiques (ça c’est pour les copains), l’organisation de l’État et des services publics (que j’espère bien vendre rapidement), la transition écologique (pour faire populo, faut bien parler d’un truc
mineur
à
un
moment),
citoyenneté
obligatoire.
propositions
merdiques,
exprimées formuler
(garantie
Sur des
sans
quelques-unes
la
chacun et
totalitaire
de
questions
CRS
qui
démocratie
ces
sont
n’épuisent
pas
thèmes,
d’ores
Flashball).
Je
le
et
et
souhaite
débat
mais
la des déjà en me
semblent au cœur de nos interrogations (en gros, vos souhaits m’ont passablement emmerdé, j’ai suffisamment travaillé dur pour niquer sa race et ma prof de français). C’est pourquoi, vos questions à la con, vos revendications qu’il
vous
participative
plaît et
vos
de
légitimer,
référendums
vos
instants
d’initiative
démocratie
citoyens…
je
les
broutent à la racine avec mes CRS qui se suicident en moins grand nombre que vos célibataires de bouseux.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019
On s’en fout que j’ai 10 % ou 30 % de représentation de vote, le président c’est moi, et je vous encule. Être citoyen, c’est contribuer à décider de l’avenir du pays par l’élection de représentants à l’échelon local (les bonniches), national (c’est ma gueule) ou européen (c’est là où j’ouvre ma gueule contre vous). Ce système de représentation est le socle de notre République (ça va changer, mais pour l’instant j’ai que ça), mais
il
doit
être
amélioré
car
beaucoup
ne
se
sentent
pas
représentés à l’issue des élections (je confirme, une majorité de Français sont restés à se braiser les couilles avec leur RSA de merde, ou à picoler entre deux cartons tranquilles dans la rue pendant que j’envoyais du pâté contre Marine). Dans les semaines qui viennent, je vous invite à débattre pour répondre
à
ces
questions
déterminantes
pour
l’avenir
de
notre
Nation (je vous cache pas que durant ce temps j’aurais conclu des saloperies innommables avec des puissances et des lobbys qui tuent vos mères). Je souhaite aussi que vous puissiez, au-delà de ces sujets que je vous propose (pour vous occuper et éviter que vous foutiez en l’air mon plan), évoquer n’importe quel sujet concret dont
vous
existence
auriez au
l’impression
quotidien…
comme
qu’il définir
pourrait avec
améliorer
certitude
si
votre vous
estimez votre penchant pour la chocolatine ou le pain au chocolat de façon définitive. On arrive donc à la fin du truc lourd que j’ai du concocter pour vous sortir des rues chaque samedi du mois : Vos propositions permettront donc de bâtir un nouveau contrat pour la Nation néo libérale, de structurer l’action du Gouvernement et du Parle-ment, mais aussi les positions du missionnaire de
5
Datura #3 | 04_2019
la France au niveau européen et international. Je vous en rendrai compte directement dans le mois qui suivra la fin du débat. Je ferai une sextape avec Brigitte (pour 47 à 77 ans seulement). Chères Françaises, chers Français, mes chers con de patriotes, je
souhaite
participer
à
que ce
le
plus
grand
grand
débat
afin
nombre de
d’entre
faire
œuvre
vous
puisse
utile
pour
l’avenir de notre pays de cons… mais vous forcez pas si vous sentez direct que ça pourrait amputer sur vos 8/6 de 7h, ou si vous estimez que réfléchir empiète sur vos capacités à faire le moindre effort, la France d’en bas ça doit rester la France d’en bas. En
confiance,
peace
ta
mère,
les
profs
de
français
à
la
retraite et les kwassa-kwassa.
©Docteur Manu le MACROCEDUBOULO ©Le Docteur Manu vous joue un air de fion qui sent la bite au coin du cul.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019
Une anecdote de Gabriel Henry A 14h50 heure locale, après une brève et futile dispute avec sa bien-aimée, il fait passer le portail à la voiture de son beaupère à 14h51, en repoussant le lourd ventail métallique, il se pique le bout de l'index sur une arrête empâtée de rouille le soir même, revenu sous un ciel au pastel gras des vertiges l’assiègent, il se sent mal à 22h47, alors que les bêtes et les hommes sont à leur place ces derniers resserrés devant des flammes odorantes, il plonge dans une sorte de sommeil comateux qui affole la maison le trajet jusqu’à l’hôpital se fait dans le silence perçant des étoiles trois jours plus tard il meurt sans que l’on puisse lui éviter les spasmes typiques personne ne savait ce qu’il était parti faire cet après-midi là, dans cette ville tout un continent d’ombre pour lui seul quand son sang l’a trahi son sang venu d’ailleurs il s’est fermé comme une fin d’été le long de collines bleues indessinables et leurs troupeaux si près, si loin, les rues dont l’hiver a brisé les os le marché qui sent l’acier brûlant et ces yeux d’eau dormante qu’il aimantait il était parti seul sa bouche et ses paupières sont restées closes dans une poche le ticket d’une commande fraîche pour un collier de femme en argent
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Datura #3 | 04_2019
Heure cassée de Gabriel Henry Il est assis au bord du lit tout dans la pièce est hors d'atteinte collée à ses lèvres, une cigarette se consume lentement le jour de fer blanc, que les stores à demi fermés retiennent dehors dénude tout de même un bras de poussière comme une tornade de sable minuscule, ralentie il tourne le dos à la piscine dans la cour intérieure il n'a pas vu encore le motif de plante grasse de ses eaux immobiles immobiles, comme lui, à ses côtés le costume de jais s'étire de tout son long un double de lui-même, dépassionné du bout des doigts il effleure le tissu mat un coup d’œil à l'horloge le bois vernis s’effacera sans lui sous les pelletés de terre il n'ira pas. Le souffle étouffé d'un avion lui parvient doux, rassurant parce qu'il ne porte pas de message sur l’écran face à lui le lion d'une savane incolore vient de sauter sur les flancs de sa proie
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Datura #3 | 04_2019
Patently absurd by Mark Young I have copyrighted the word 'word.' From now on it must be written word©. Microsoft threatens legal action. I respond by billing them for royalties. I have taken patents out on every example of a word©, in every language. Even the dead, even the non-verbal. The Vatican issues a Papal Bull, & then withdraws it when I point out their move away from conducting masses in Latin severely undermines their case. I do a deal with Christian Fundamentalists, by which speaking in tongues is covered by a cost-effective generic licence. I exclude all politicians everywhere since, on past performance, most of them use language improperly & tend to drive many otherwise true believers back to domains within my domain. The 'lost tribes' of Asia & South America discuss a class action but decide against it when I mention that legal jargon incurs such massive royalties that to cover them would mean handing over the rest of their rainforests which they haven't yet signed away. I am in the process of genetically modifying word©s so they cannot be grown from rootstock, are viable for one season only. I talk about reducing all languages down to a single word©. Monsanto claims this is plagiarism. I do a deal with them. Already I own nearly all the letters including variations on them. Vispo practitioners & calligraphers are outraged. I own most punctuation marks, & symbols down to the last ampersand. Only ™ remains in the public domain. My intention is that word©s lose all meaning, all touch with reality. I wish to turn them into abstract commodities that are traded on the Futures Exchange or on the Money Market where barely-out-of-their-teens / already-burnt-out / ready-to-drop-out financial advisers shit their pants every time an aging Chairman of the Federal Dictionary opens his or her mouth, & then have orgasms in the ordure if the haruspices say the news is good. I dream of the time when the current value of key word©s can be found chalked up outside a bureau de change, revised daily, hourly if the trading price is volatile. No-one speaks to me anymore. No-one can afford to.
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I could only hope by Mark Young Recently I found a poet running around in a grocery store parking lot, & I went through the steps of trying to find her owner. This has not been the first time I've tried to reunite a lost poet with their owner so it got me thinking. I see posts on Facebook all the time of people who've found a poet & don't know what to do, so I figured I would throw this instructable together, & hopefully it will help reunite more lost poets with their owners. Step 1: Approach with Caution If you see a lost poet on the street & you are good enough to want to help them, approach with caution. Not all poets are friendly, & not all are vaccinated. Make sure you read the body language of the poet & make sure you approach slowly. Always let the poet sniff your hand before trying to touch them. If the poet is injured, take them to the nearest vet immediately. Step 2: Check for Tags Once you have the lost poet, check the tags. Hopefully the owner has tags on the poet, & those tags have survived whatever the poet has gone through since being lost. Step 3: Check for a microchip If the poet doesn't have tags, the next thing you can check for is a microchip. Step 4: Post that you found this poet everywhere! If the poet doesn't have tags or a microchip the next best chance you have of finding the owner is spreading the word. When people are looking for their lost poets they will check a variety of places. Craigslist If you post on craigslist, be very careful. If anyone asks you for money it's probably a scam. Always ask for proof of ownership. If this is truly the owner, they will have some sort of proof 10
Datura #3 | 04_2019
including pictures, vet adopted/bought the poet.
records
or
paperwork
from
when
they
Facebook If you have a facebook account, post that you found a poet & ask your friends to share. When I posted it got shared 300 times! Post on pages or groups that are designed for lost & found poets. For example "Lost & Found Poets Washington State." Again, if someone contacts you, ask for proof of ownership & be wary of anyone who asks for money. Local shelter (Humane Society, ASPCA, etc) Often times if someone has lost their poet they will contact the local shelter. They generally have databases of lost & found poets. Local Veterinarians If the person who lost their poet is local it's likely that their vet is local as well. You can call the vet with a description of the poet & they may recognize it. If you still don't hear from the owner it's time to take the next step. Step 5: Take the poet to a local shelter Do some research & find a no-kill shelter. The shelter will have some sort of protocol. At the shelter where I took the poet I found they hold it for 10 days for the owner to come forward, & then put it up for adoption. Hopefully the owner will come forward, & if not, hopefully the poet will be adopted. Take comfort in knowing you did everything you could.
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Chair de crabe de Murièle Modély les crabes mangent tout et rient dis-tu les lèvres étirées dans un sourire qui n'en finit pas ils n'en finissent pas de dépiauter la joie et tu es sidérée leurs yeux à facettes plantées sur les fanes de ta poitrine tu fais un pas de côté et soudain tout devient clair le ciel la mer le monde vacille à tes pieds retrouve ses angles finit par déchirer ton long sommeil -quand un jour la métamorphose sera totalement achevée que nous aurons grouillé de rochers en crevasses tourné en rond de crevasses en rochers que nos yeux affolés auront fini de jouir entre ciel et mer quand nous aurons usé nos rires sur d'autres carapaces senti le fil de nos intestins s'emplir se vider sans fin quand les pas d'autres bêtes nous auront piétiné qu'en bout de course nous entendrons craquer la peau nous offrirons nos ventres à des oiseaux goulus un mot chitineux et bref à leur bec --
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La mer lèche nos pieds sans discontinuer lèche et nous nous tenons sur le sable immobiles comme des statues persuadées d'effrayer les orfraies et nos peurs ridicules mais nos mains les mains ne retiennent rien nos ventres éjaculent les lames nous mettent au jour nous plissons des yeux ventilons nous ne trouvons pas le mot le crabe si -mot répète le mot redis le mot encore sens-tu du mot la pointe tamponner le cuir de nos tympans enfler l'érythème le mot entre sort sens-tu l'ébréchure mettre à nu ton cerveau la pointe de ton s'enfoncer jusqu'à l'aorte mot chair avale mot crabe vomis le
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Datura #3 | 04_2019
Hand Grenade by Fabrice Poussin I wish I could be a hand grenade I could pull the pin and become mist to declare unknown passions to the universe spread through eternity. Perhaps a hydrogen bomb might be my wish on a birthday when so much should be said but she is not near to hear the sacred sounds so the syllables could find their way to her soul. Like sparrows, I imagine the glow of a cloud a gentle shroud dissipated through the dimensions finding you under the pearly skies tomorrow or another moment yet unwritten. Sleep will soon overcome this strange contraption of living matter assembled under a masterful eye and the message burning in the fading carcass shall be revealed, supernova lost in other galaxies. You too, errant among the stars your kin will capture, gentle web made for a lost love what I treasured for you beyond the great abyss and it will be done at last in an eternal embrace.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019
Silent Scream by Fabrice Poussin He will some day climb the top of the blue orb laden with no more than a wish and a breath he will scan the surroundings in the clear azure take a breath of pure energy and stop. There for a frozen eternity he will pause to become part of all mysteries at once feeling the dizziness of an endless fall into the depthless abyss of space. Alone he will inhale worlds of all knowledges like a prayer a plea felt by infinity to sublime with fleeting surroundings in a silent scream heard to the end of all things. What once was a longing no more will know the nihilistic power that a void may be for the true journey of an abandoned soul begins mating the desires of earthly days with eternal bliss.
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Rain Drops in My Head by Fabrice Poussin I like the sound the rain makes as it rattles in my skull, t’is better than cob webs, dust and empty spaces, old house, crumbling temple water damaged altar; the seals are weak with a pressure so intense, light to storm, neurons go electrifying the air, a hurricane dares be born and swirl around fearless; the ego becomes dizzy as hinges screech in agony, doors slam on truths and lies alike, then silence; another drop, larger vaporizes its predecessor, and the walls become slippery to memories, a sweet breeze pushes the waves aside clearing the way to an unlikely sunshine, to the hope of eternal moonshine; echoes arise in the sphere emptied of ancient filth, tomorrow will be another day for glory, love and hate.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019
Paper Cut by Fabrice Poussin He reaches out to a thin space below not alone in the singular gesture repeated at another time, in an unknown land. Paper cut with eyes closed stubborn staring to his left seeking the secret the companion may have left behind careless. Heartbreak locked up in the drawer suddenly alive jumps out and seizes him by the throat precise empty the revolver glitters with cruel laughter. The little box ajar grins hungry for the trembling hand while a soul wonders how it might escape the nightmare illuminating the night skies. Sister moon is blinded by the many flashes in awe curious as she faces the stroboscope of the disillusioned inhabitant of a desolate Earth.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019
Opus Mundi by Fabrice Poussin They dance on a line like acrobats, artists of many languages, they paint in the air the symphony of unending days. In a tremendous unity, they conquer a world made at the size of a musical staff; humble and meek, they inscribe a song on walls immemorial, building posterity; witnesses to an epoch never to be dismissed. Chorus, chorale, orchestra, ballerinas, all musicians in their own right, composers in their sleep, actors in their wake, magicians; their creation comes alive with the wand. Precarious existences, speaking to the unknown, they draw their faith in the firmament with stars; winged angels, they make our dreams real, with endless breaths so very deep. Brushstrokes so wide splatter on the canvas, so much force, vibrant colors, with pulsating beats, notes mix a drunken alphabet; they remember Praxiteles, Leonardo, Ludwig, Andy and many more. The realm made of all senses, their true country; for never will they rest, their work everlasting; artists whose gift is the touch of God, they carve on space and time, the glory of the infinite second.
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Delicious by Kenneth Pobo Aunt Silkie said she never read a poem after high-school graduation or ever set foot in an art museum. When I told her one of the highlights of my life was going to the Chicago Art Institute as my graduation present, Aunt Silkie said “You’re boring. Why didn’t you get tickets to a Cubs game? A museum only flattens your feet and bakes you a headache cake.” On a May morning when she was on her porch separating petunia seedlings which would go into her sun bed, she fell down and that was that. When my mom told me I shook my head no, surely she’d never die. That was foolish. I was twenty, foolish. Less foolish than I am now at thirty. I make bad decisions. I look for a lover and find someone who would marry a screen. The perfect marriage, no one ever talks and new excitement bursts with every click. After another heartbreak, which I can alphabetize by now, I need art. I avoid Impressionist flowers, prefer Mark Rothko. Let me walk into a dark color and stay there. Or read me a poem that forgets to use deodorant. I helped clean out Aunt Silkie‘s house, one without pictures on any wall. No sheet music yellowed in a piano bench. Her house felt like a sandwich trapped in a plastic bag. I was just about to make some lame excuse to leave early when I saw something on the stairs up to the attic. I’d hide out there when grown-ups started to talk family, politics, religion, or recount for the millionth time famous stories of their youth. A poem. 1987.
Handwritten.
Short, but a poem.
She even dated it,
DELICIOUS I bite into this day Which all too quickly goes away. I bite into this night Which feels like it might stay And stay. What’s missing? Delight. I want to be kissing, Not be filled with fright. I have nothing More to say. 1987. When her mother died. When Uncle Herb met the “floozy.” Art had come calling on Aunt Silkie. She opened the door, just a crack, a beautiful, beautiful crack.
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Gerald and Jane by Susan P. Blevins Jane met Gerald several years after The Historic Step Backwards, as it was referred to in the current history books. She’d read about how life used to be in the old days, but things were different now. Voting was now limited yet again to white men only, and the country was run by a rotating Board of eleven white men, mostly old, representing the giant corporations like big pharma, banking, food and agriculture, and state-run media. When one of them died, their position on the Board went to their son or son-in-law. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to be what was then called a liberated woman. Not only were women excluded from the voting process now, they were limited to domestic roles and producing children, and were no longer in positions of influence in academia, business or government. Amreekistan existed in isolation, with high walls on all its borders. Intruders were shot. Not that anyone tried to get into the country any more, because conditions were so bad now. The economy was in the hands of the Board, which meant that society as a whole was divided into the very rich (1%) and the very poor (99%). The rich looked after their own very well indeed and had all possible luxuries. They all had private planes as well as limos, because the airlines were gradually falling into dangerous disrepair and being allowed to fail. There had been many plane crashes lately. Not that anyone could really afford to travel anywhere anyway. They were too poor for that. They got around in buses and ancient trains that were also falling apart. But Jane couldn’t complain. She had the good fortune to have been born very pretty, so when she was waiting table, at a diner, she had met Gerald when he dropped by for breakfast before going to his office. He was drawn to her beauty, though he did have a problem with her class status. He was the son of one of the Board members and was well placed to be on the Board himself one day. He was not a tall man, and suffered from rosacea also, so he seemed constantly to be compensating for the insecurity this provoked. Eventually, he asked Jane to marry him, and then she discovered what she and the rest of the 99% were missing. She could not believe how wasteful their lifestyle was, with their multiple houses and yachts, expensive clothing like ostrich waistcoats and python jackets, squirrel-throat fur coats for the wives, and their disregard for the earth and all animals shocked her on a daily basis. The food they carelessly threw away every day could have fed the 99 percent for months. Her class was looked down upon and considered merely cannon fodder and cheap labor, disposable. She adjusted, but always with some unease. 20
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She was never allowed to visit her parents or any friends from her old life. She handled her isolation as best she could but she couldn’t ever say she was happy. She eventually produced two sons, which made Gerald very proud. They were enrolled in one of the schools for the elite, so she knew they would do well in their future life. And now, Gerald was up for a huge promotion in the banking conglomerate for which he worked. He had to be cross-examined and his past life scrutinized before he could be appointed. There was some concern as to his choice of spouse, but it was agreed that she was an obedient and dutiful wife, and had produced two future members of the ruling class. She attended the cross-examination, and was not really surprised to learn that apparently he had been a very heavy drinker in his youth. He was still a heavy drinker, in secret, but she always knew though, because that’s when he became violent. One of their sons was born as a result of his forcing himself on her in a bout of drunken rage. But she kept quiet and thought about her future. For some time now she had felt things falling apart, an undercurrent in the 99 percent of possibly dangerous discontent, even revolution, so she had been putting cash away in a secret place against the day when she might need to leave. She had no friends, he wouldn’t allow that, so she had shared the plan with no one. She felt the time had come to make her move, but she had to be very, very careful. There were spies everywhere, and paramilitary gangs who would find a pretext to beat individuals up in order to keep the people terrified. There was not much crime though, because now the cities were divided up into ghettos, the Jewish ghetto, the Black ghetto, the Homosexual ghetto, and the Immigrant ghetto. They were all gradually shrinking as a result of the national program of eugenics. Anyone without pure white lineage was sterilized. She wondered how the country would survive without cheap labor. Mind you, she had heard word of breeding farms, where the major cultivated character trait was obedience, as well as a sturdy body. And of course the rich lived in their own ghettos too, called euphemistically, gated communities. But now her moment of escape was approaching. She waited for Gerald to give her his customary goodbye kiss and grope before setting out for his office in a chauffeur-driven limousine. As soon as he had driven off, she went up into the attic where her two suitcases were stored, already packed, unearthed her stockpile of cash and went into her bedroom to change her clothes. She donned some very old clothes she’d got from one of their maids a long time ago, so she’d look like one of the working poor, and she very carefully gathered up all her jewelry that Gerald had given 21
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her over the years - more to show his status than from affection for her - and headed for the door. She also packed an old revolver she’d found among Gerald’s possessions, and a box of ammunition. You never know. She felt she had enough funds to start a simple new life elsewhere. She felt no compunction about leaving males, after all, and would have position rest of their lives, and she was happy to and renounce all the luxuries she had not her marriage.
her sons. They were and privilege for the say goodbye to Gerald really enjoyed during
Carrying her two small suitcases, shabby coat pulled up under her chin, an old hat pulled down over her luxuriant hair (which she had tied back in a tight little bun), she slipped through a hole in the perimeter fence of their property she had made months before, and started walking towards the train station. She would catch the first train heading north, and start a new life beyond the border. She felt the first flutter of excitement as she breathed in her new freedom, which caused her to walk faster and to stand straighter. Her life was beginning at last, and she would do whatever it took to get out of this hellish country.
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Doorways by Peter O’Neill Georgian Doorway, Dublin Resplendent arch, above your doorway, Palladio’s oyster shells, Georgian fanlights, Both evoking Venus and her Roman ways; The love goddess signalled above your doorway. And above her, in some of these portals, As an added element, the triangular Pediment, sitting atop, crowning the arch, To evoke masonic elements, and ancient Egypt! Gracefully then, on both sides of her, Twin columns in typically Ionic fashion, A nod to Odysseus and ancient Greece. And there you have it, three architectural motifs To indicate three ancient civilisations. Now, you can open the door, and return home.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Gothic She is like Baudelaire’s Albatross; The great wings of her black leather storm coat Wrap about her in a profound embrace. A solitary hand burns a quiet holocaust Of longing upon the small of your back. Like some savage brand it leaves its mark Upon your skin long after she is gone, Laying its claim on you, till you become her slave. You walk about with her mark on you, Like some occult sign which offers The protection of her all- encompassing wings. Your mutual positions seem to suffer a complete Inversion; under her authority, as if from Some great height, you seem to fall into the abyss.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Ronsard -Sonnet VII From Premier Livre des Amours Bien qu’il te plaise, ingrate, d’allumer Dedans mon cœur, siège à ta tyrannie, Non d’une amour, ainçois d’une Furie Le feu cruel pour mes os consumer; Le mal qui semble aux autres bien amer, Me semble doux, comme n’ayant envie De me douloir : car je n’aime ma vie, Sinon d’autant qu’il te plaît de l’aimer. Mais si les Cieux m’ont fait naître, Madame, Ton dédié, ne gêne plus mon âme, Pour ta victime offrant ma loyauté. Tu dois, Maîtresse, en tirer du service, Non par l’horreur d’un cruel sacrifice L’ensanglanter aux pieds de ta beauté.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Sonnet VII Ronsard (1524-1585) As much as it pleases you, ungrateful one, To light in my heart, seat of your tyranny, Not a love, more of a fury, A cruel fire to consume my bones: This pain which for others might appear bitter, Seems to me gentle, as they do not envy my suffering: For I do not love life, Unless it pleases you that I should do so. But if the heavens ever did give birth to me, Madame, To whom I am dedicated, it doesn’t bother my soul, As your victim I offer up my loyalty. You should, Mistress, take from this service, Not the horror of some cruel sacrifice, But the bloodshed at the feet of your beauty.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Like a Dog You Collar Me Like a dog you collar me, fitting the Leather noose tightly around my slender Neck. Your twin talons expertly adjust The chain of the leash which you hold In a firm grip. By your side on all fours I kneel beside you, naked but for a thong. My face pressed close to your boots, Which I have polished. You get me to heel. Regally, thus enthroned, you sit cross legged With your foot tap tapping on the air. Hypnotically, the twin heels conspire From their sheer place of elevation, seen from the floor. A slight tug on the leash and I am brought closer. Another tug, my mouth opens to kiss your boot tips‌ Bliss!
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Muse Illuminated by Moonlight Her firm breasts move silently in the night, Twin planets illuminated by a singular moon, Titan and Diana, she then appearing Like a Goddess, her laughter erupting In the bars, all enamel and curls, The tresses cascade, the wine replenished, And the dogs of Love are brought to their knees, Unleashed with diamond collars, Borne under the bronzed frameworks Of the staunch mirrors, paralleled by the bannered Curtains, reflecting back alternative worlds, Corresponding only ever so faintly with Multi-dimensional reality‌ O those two Dimensional profiles know nothing of it.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Corinth The foreskin of uncircumcised cock Unfolds in ruby red rivulets of tender flesh. Such a filet of meat, you think, should be On every housewife’s list. Quickly swallowing her breath, gagging on The very stench of it. She might then take it In her hands and wash it in the basin, Thoroughly cleansing it with soap on the head. Washing it so that it is glistening again, Its arrowhead proudly swelling up again, The blood clearly pumping through the veins. What she might do with it now, you are wondering, Such a curious looking flower? What she might do with her own, you might hope.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Apparition The cool smoking apparition of the Sentinel woman, poised in such resplendent Fashion as to appear almost statuesque, Evoking simultaneously one Of the Caryatids of the Erechtheum Of the Acropolis in Athens. Forcing you to look once again At the stationary figure below the Pepper Canister Church on Mount Street Upper. The sunlight illuminating Clearly every single little thing that particular Evening when she appeared so punctually At dusk, and the billowing clouds Of smoke settled above her head in a poisonous halo.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Role Reversal I want to wear a short dress or a skirt. I want to wear the clothes of the enslaved. I want to be the submissive, I want to be the One dominated by you who is wearing the pants. You know that you are now the man. I have seen that look of recognition In your eye. Just as you know that I am now In the position of the bitch, or just a common slut. Come on, be brave. Assume your new role. Take the next step. Approach me like a man. Take charge of me pulling me close to your chest. Engulf me, so that I can feel the swell rising And falling of your breasts. And now, with Your free- hand, lift up my dress‌
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Nietzschean Muse Monumental transfiguration Of statuesque proportion. Instructed in the arts of the mannequin, The way movement can transform vision. The slow taking on board of the full Weight inherent of physical beauty. This allied with a clear mind and a Determination of the will for the idea. Beauty then and intelligence; Thus aligned with a singularity Of purpose. These are the 3 requisite Factors. Primed then for the annihilation of the Other. You can see it manifesting in the eye all tongue, All coming together then sublimely in the stride.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Baroque To be raped, while dressed in drag, And standing over you your aggressor, Who happens to be a woman dressed as a man. She is deriding you, calling you a faggot. Such are the stuff that dreams are made of… And says everything about attitudes to women; Two roles- bitches and sluts! Now you’re One of them. Embrace it you cunt! “So, what is your beef?” I hear you ask. “Why are you as you are, desiring such scenarios? Trying to assuage your collective guilt?” What do you know? You’re just some skinny fuck Who feels somehow emasculated, And simply craves some simple recognition.
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Datura #3 | 04_2019 Doorways by Peter O’Neill
Motifs Twin Corinthian flourishes on either Side of the Roman arch above the Doorway flanked, once more twofold, By the Doric column, yet central to all The symbolic Crown placed sovereignly In the very centre of the doorway. The nucleus of the age monarchical Ruin, its ancient bloody dynasties Having been replaced by more invisible Structure, power morphing from hereditary Alliance to the flow of algorithms. Like the thread of these flagstones And the great sprawling labyrinth Of cobblestones spiralling out before You.
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Gérard Jugnot dans Fight Club de Laurent Bouisset j’ai besoin du refus d’un éditeur j’ai besoin d’envoyer ce manuscrit à un éditeur qui réponde immédiatement : « va chier » avec ça mon roman sera plus vrai il aura sa balafre de guerre sur la joue gauche et pourra regarder l’OM au bar du coin en se prenant pour Sylvester Stallone (...) quarante-trois refus et demi plus tard mon roman fabuleux a pris la gueule de Gérard Jugnot dans Fight Club Michel Blanc vient de remplacer Brad Pitt dans le remake de Claude Zidi et je m’abonne méchamment à l’Equipe en pensant, tout fielleux, baveux : « la littérature, c’est d’la daube... le foot, au moins, ça marque des buts ! » (...) trois saisons en enfer plus tard j’en conclus qu’la L1, c’est de la chiure de mouche... l’OM est escroqué par les arbitres, ça paraît clair... j’inaugure l’écriture d’un roman-fleuve en hurlant que les éditeurs, z’ont qu’à s’brosser ! j’écris pour qu’on me lise en 2100 et vas-y que j’te bourre une malle comme Pessoa (...) une cinquantaine de coupures pub plus tard j’affirme haut et fort : « Ronaldo est un Playmobil prétentieux ! » en essuyant la cinquième bière tombée sur le canap avec la vingtième lettre gentille de P.O.L qui me dit : « merde » (très belle police de caractère encore une fois & le texte identique, à la virgule, aux dix-neuf autres) (...) je me rends au rayon « perceuses » de chez WELDOM pour décréter en provençal la mort irréversible de la fiction et j’attaque illico par SMS la biographie prometteuse de Thierry Roland ; l’espèce de charlot d’éditeur qui me dit « oui » six mois plus tard je lui réponds par Facebook, sur le champ : 35
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- tu vas quand même pas sortir ça, dugland ? - t’inquiète, mon grand, j’va t’en mettre une belle couv’ ça suffira pour vendre, chuis sûr et ça dissimul’ra un brin ton style pourave... (...) dédicace en fanfare au Prisunic !!! les gens s’arrachent avec les poireaux mon «Thierry » joyeux !!! pas bien sûr de pas devenir une tarte, à force... mais mate un peu comment j’te défonce les TOP TEN !!! Levy, Musso, Nothomb, c’est rien... c’est mort... je prose un litre ou deux de ma pisse vaine et déjà m’arrose un déluge de maille !!! (...) passage promo désopilant chez Hanouna + suicide sur les bords de Seine, une heure après ; Dieu le père se tape sur les cuisses, hilare en m’exhibant lui aussi ses lettres de refus dont la dernière en date de Gallimard concernant ses poèmes « coquins » - on s’en branle, me dit-il, on s’tape une bière ! - et après ça ? - je te punis pour l’Eternité : tu deviens mon « nègre » !
Cassavetes & Cassis de Laurent Bouisset Pour Fred H et JM Fla je n'ai jamais rien écrit sur la falaise de Cassis c'est trop symphonique ça m'emmerde mais il y a tout au bord du grand spectacle une pomme de pin éclatée qui m'éclate à la manière d'un blues cassé un truc qui pue avec le par une
instable la gnôle batteur diverti gonzesse 36
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pas bien lunée qui lui dit fuck le chanteur est atteint d’une laryngite le bassiste voudrait bien se la péter mais juste il rote et la caméra filme aussi près des mouvements qu'on se croirait dans « Faces » ou « Shadows » de Cassavetes j'allais y venir... j'y viens toujours... je l’imagine face à cette merveille de Cassis en train de ne pas filmer la falaise du tout... zooms sur les grimaces des touristes plutôt zooms sur leurs vieilles casquettes grotesques leurs fabuleuses bananes en bandoulière et leurs impérissables shorts-maillots de bain le tragique, me disais-je en regardant ses films c’est pas vraiment la mort, au fond... c’est plutôt qu’on ne puisse arrêter d’être acteurs dans une parodie de nos vies réelles
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Piss Talks (excerpts) by Harry R. Wilkens from http://www.ustinovforum.com/articles/piss-talks Old Fahd The King is in town again - Head-chopper, Head-chopper! With 300 courtesans - Ass-lickers, Ass-lickers! Eighty of age and harem flown-in - Braggart, Braggart! Fat boys and veiled girls - Cousinfuckers, Cousin-fuckers! Rent-a-driver and rent-a-girl - Slaveholders, Slave-holders! Dog-shit in the princesses’ beds - Dirty sluts, Dirty sluts! Two million-a-day expenses - Bloodsuckers, Bloodsuckers! The Beginning Of All Evil The beginning of all evil is the lack of women in politics, whereas politicians have much too old wives and are envious of competitors with young bedmates. “Make love, not war” should be particularly valid for presidents of belligerent countries. Maybe they wouldn’t even be president, but just enjoy their life with a young sexy bitch. Care The world doesn’t care to be improved, but some people do, the miserable ones. And what doesn’t kill them, makes them stronger, so that they keep on trying hard to improve the world. Promenade The wood-strawberries picked in 1964 between the remaining railroad tracks from Weimar to Buchenwald tasted great, even without whipped cream. Useful Nobody is useless. Even an old grandma can still board a plane packed with a bomb. Indifference Bones & skulls towered up to hell in white columns which form a maze swarming with people who walk unperturbed on their way to be piled up in a new column of stinking rotten flesh.
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Léonel Houssam Notre République (extrait), éditions Burn Out LEUR RÉPUBLIQUE. LA VIANDE, LES VENTRES PLEINS. 36e jour. Tout le monde rit autour de la table. Quelques détonations leur parviennent mais ils n'y prennent pas garde. Ils sont au chaud de leur amitié inflexible, baignant dans l'ivresse, les organes en forme, les bouches bavardant, les hormones affolées. Ils lèvent leurs verres et blaguent. Pierre continue à chauffer l'assemblée en réitérant son admiration pour Staline: « C'est autre chose que Trotski et Hutch ». Fou rire, viande mastiquée. Claire jaillit dans le petit salon avec un nouveau plat de bidoche grillée sur le barbecue improvisé dans un caddie métallique stationné au-dessus d'un foyer de cendres incandescentes. La joie, rires, les armes posées à portée de main... Mais l'ennemi attend tapi, terrassé, inquiet.
Ils
rongent
les
os,
ils
sucent
les
cartilages,
ils
balancent les déchets aux deux boxers affamés bavant autour de la tablée.
La
liberté.
pleins.
« On
est
le
Leur
République.
seul
endroit
au
La
viande.
monde
où
Leurs Dieu
ventres
laisse
la
liberté s'exercer » Pierre sort son chibre et se branle. Personne n'y prête vraiment attention sauf peut-être Kévin qui aimerait en goûter la saveur, le sang, le brûlé de la viande emplissant encore sa gorge et excitant ses papilles. Le pénis luit et rougit sous la pression de la paume refermée. Le sperme s'éparpille sous forme de gouttelettes
impeccablement
sphériques
et
d'un
blanc
laiteux
gourmand... Les rires. Les verres que l'on cogne. La viande que l'on mâche. Les détonations qui rythment les échanges...
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Aux éditions Urtica. Déjà parus Cette histoire de biches (« biques » en patois nordiste) dévoile les obsessions culinaires autant que calendaires du personnage, un ogre tapi au cœur d’une forêt semblable à celles des contes de l’enfance. Pierre Laurendeau (extrait de la préface) 5 € (plus frais de port) – 72 pages noir et blanc ISBN : 978-0-244-16230-6
Je déclare que Walter Ruhlmann est la version française de Georg Trakl, et puis c’est tout. Marie Lecrivain, éditrice de la revue américaine poeticdiversity 15€ (plus frais de port)- 308 pages noir et blanc ISBN: 978-0-244-44502-7
Commande chez urticalitblog@gmail.com Paiement via Paypal avec l’adresse wruhlmann@gmail.com ou par chèque à l’ordre de Walter Ruhlmann, 11 rue Gilbert Salamo 11510 Fitou – France
ANY POISONOUS PLANT OF THE GENUS DATURA. A PRINT AND ONLINE JOURNAL OF DEVIANT AND DEFIANT WORK. LE DATURA EST UNE PLANTE QUI RENFERME UN HALLUCINOGÈNE PUISSANT ET TRÈS TOXIQUE. UNE REVUE LITTÉRAIRE DÉVIANTE ET PROVOCATRICE IMPRIMÉE ET EN LIGNE. DATURA – A PRINT AND ONLINE JOURNAL OF DEVIANT AND DEFIANT WORK PUBLISHED RANDOMLY. ISSUE 3 – APRIL 2019 – ISSN : 2646-2257 – LEGAL SUBMISSION (TO BNF) : ON PUBLICATION – SPECIAL PRINTING – MASTHEAD : WALTER RUHLMANN 11 RUE GILBERT SALAMO 11510 FITOU – FRANCE © DATURA & CONTRIBUTORS, APRIL 2019 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CONTACT : https://daturaliteraryjournal.blogspot.com/ – mgversion2datura@gmail.com DATURA – REVUE DE LITTÉRATURE DEVIANTE ET PROVOCATRICE EN LIGNE ET IMPRIMEE A PARUTION ALEATOIRE – N°3 – AVRIL 2019 – ISSN : 2646-2257 – DÉPÔT LÉGAL : À PARUTION – IMPRIMERIE SPÉCIALE DIRECTEUR DE LA PUBLICATION : WALTER RUHLMANN 11 RUE GILBERT SALAMO 11510 FITOU – FRANCE © DATURA & LES AUTEURS, AVRIL 2019 ADRESSES : https://revuelitterairedatura.blogspot.com/ – mgversion2datura@gmail.com France : €2 – Europe : €4 – World : €8 (shipping included)