Datura issue 5 October 2019

Datura #5 | 10_2019 Beveridge – Culla – Guzzi – Lewitzky Spring – Vallera –

– Breen – Docteur Burz Diamondopolous – Grey – Houssam – Khomutoff – – Potier – Sarnat – Steinfeld – Tustin – Wilkens

Aux éditions Urtica. Déjà parus Civilisé de Walter RUHLMANN 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 Necro manigances Dandois saisissantes de Necro Mongers et Pascal Dandois 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 Fandango by Walter Ruhlmann 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

Contents | Sommaire Cover illustration | Illustration de couverture: Steve Berardi: October Clouds and Oak Tree  Docteur Burz: editorial  Michaeël Potier: Le Noir Baiser de la Vieillesse, Des Morsures De Diable, Amour Perdu, Dans Le Cul Des Artistes et Chant D’amour Triste  Rus Khomutoff: prose poem – Bizarrobot by Kenji Siratori  Karen Breen: Ablutions in Martinsburg, WV  Robert Beveridge: Silver Needles  Daniel de Culla: Ragecracker, Benchcracker, Busybody  DC Diamondopolous: Billy Luck  David Lewitzky: A Guy Walks Into a Bar  Deborah Guzzi: Fill the Void and Genetic Predispositions  Gerard Sarnat: Getting Off In Peru –Photograph The Lima Huancayo Railroad  John Grey: My Copperhead Encounter, Into the Woods Once More, and In a Previous Death  Michael Spring: masks on the wall  John Tustin: Under the Covers with the Rain  J. J. Steinfeld: Unmagical  Nicola Vallera: The Endless City  Harry R. Wilkens: excerpts from Piss Talks – Stormy Sky above Kolkata by Sergio  Léonel Houssam: extrait de Notre République – Attic photographie de James C. Farmer

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EDITORIAL par le Docteur Burz Le nombril du monde se regarde en espérant une nouvelle religion.

Publié dans Les déraisons du Docteur Burz https://ledocteurburz.wordpress.com le 14 septembre 2019

Nous sommes des animaux.

Certains ne l’ont toujours pas compris, et se prennent pour Dieu.

La perfection n’est pas de ce monde, mais les cons se prennent encore pour des gens, ce qui leur permet d’asseoir leur raisonnement au nom de théories magiques qui les rendraient purs.

C’est toujours au moment ou tout est bien trop tard que le monde pense être autorisé à croire au miracle de la révolution.

Les vegans ne sont pas des monstres, ce sont juste des idiots.

Manger de la viande n’est pas contre nature, c’est notre société en péril qui a fait de la viande une industrie mortifère. Ne pas en manger ne changera rien. Au pire, cela donnera une nouvelle force mortifère, l’industrie des steacks vegan et de la viande in vitro. Remplacer la nature de son alimentation sans prendre en compte le nombre d’humains, c’est faire mourir l’idée que le problème n’est pas le mode d’alimentation, mais le nombre de connards qui peuplent cette terre.

Oui les animaux sont sensibles. Oui les animaux ressentent des émotions et de la douleur. Oui nous avons domestiqué une partie d’entre-eux en plusieurs millénaires. Mais en seulement 100 ans, nous avons tellement augmenté notre population que nous avons dû industrialiser la demande aux besoins. Le problème n’est donc pas notre alimentation, mais notre trop grand nombre. Développer une industrialisation de la nourriture vegan aura donc les mêmes aspects négatifs à terme au niveau écologique.

Nous sommes des prédateurs.

C’est dans notre nature, puisque nous sommes des animaux. Évidemment tous les animaux ne sont pas des prédateurs, puisqu’ils ne sont pas tous carnivores. Certains sont omnivores, comme nous, et s’adaptent par besoin au gré de leurs trouvailles. Certains sont herbivores, et participent à nourrir une certaine partie de

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la chaîne alimentaire naturelle. Certains encore sont charognards, et servent à nettoyer les carcasses mortes.

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Chacun à un rôle, et le bouleverser conduit à modifier le déroulement naturelle de la vie. En ce sens, ce que propose les antispécistes et les vegans purs et durs est une forme de rupture anthropologique.

Qu’on s’intéresse à la façon dont les animaux sont traités, c’est très bien. On dit souvent que c’est un reflet de la société notre façon de les traiter. L214 et Touti Quanti, le parti animaliste et Tralala, ouais, la réflexion est intéressante et nécessaire, Amen.

Sans même les manger nous les tuons par préméditation, ou simplement par plaisir d’une chasse insensée et inconsidérée, ou par la destruction de leur environnement.

Ce n’est pas l’alimentation de l’homme qu’il faut changer, mais sa nature profonde à l’environnement, qui a disparu avec la notion de modernité.

Plus le monde est en danger, plus les humains se comportent comme des cons. C’est sûrement dans leur nature profonde. D’abord on devient odieux avec les animaux en industrialisant leur élevage, ensuite on devient odieux avec nous-même en industrialisant l’aversion à sa consommation.

Nous sommes des ignorants.

Je sais de source sûre que le dernier des cons n’est pas né, il est en pleine fusion moléculaire.

La nature humaine n’est pas prête à faire des efforts. Il y a plusieurs centaines d’années c’était pareil, mais le nombre laissait à la « nature tout court » sa chance.

Nous fonctionnons sur le modèle d’une espèce dominante, qui impose aux autres sa vision et ses règles. Peut-être pourrions-nous considérer que l’intelligence n’a pas la forme que nous lui attribuons ? Nous sommes éventuellement une espèce en voie de distinction dans la représentation de la bêtise intensive ? Poussé à l’extrême, il est même possible que nous soyons une identité végétative de la notion d’intelligence.

Couac qu’il en soit, nous restons égal à nous-mêmes, en nous autoprenant en otage pour des problèmes qui sont plus profonds encore que notre propre survie.

Il n’y a pas grande différence entre le veganisme l’antispécisme dans le fond, ce n’est qu’une histoire 3

et de

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philosophie, une sorte de croyance religieuse qui essuie tout le reste. Il faut aux gens pour avancer, une notion de surréalisme primaire, une quantité dosée de situationisme avancé et de révolution biotechnologique.

Aimer les animaux n’a rien à voir avec le fait de les consommer ou pas, c’est une forme de respect vis à vis de la chaîne alimentaire. C’est remettre en question les traditions séculaires des peuples millénaires et opprimés des continents colonisés par le connard de blanc. Et faire par la même occasion, de cet idiot congénital, le promoteur universel d’une devise contre nature.

Nous sommes des perturbateurs endocriniens.

Notre planète est définitivement surexploitation intensive.

condamnée

à

mourir

de

sa

Peu de gens ont envie que cela change, comparativement au nombre sur terre. Pourtant, par réflexe, des animaux se mangent entre eux dans des tas de situations, et on ne leur fait aucun procès pour ça, pourquoi ? Parce que nous nous prenons pour l’espèce dominante, supérieure et bien pensante… une sorte de clergé de la pensée pure.

Nous pensons avoir des solutions, toutes les solutions. Mais le monde meurt petit à petit, tranquillement, paisiblement (enfin presque) et sans que nous puissions vraiment répondre à son cataclysme vivant.

Mais on doit manger des choses différentes pour inverser la tendance. Comme si bouffer des plantes et des légumes devait changer le Moi profond de nos considérations volubiles des croyances. L’eau étant la dernière des ressources à manquer rapidement, que cela soit des animaux ou de la végétation, elle leur fera de toute façon défaut.

Paradoxalement, alors que le sort réservé aux animaux dans les élevages est de plus en plus surveillé et pris au sérieux, de plus en plus de gens font des procès pour des grenouilles, des cigales, des coqs et j’en passe. Oui bon, c’est souvent des parisiens qui s’installent à la campagne et qui n’ont rien compris (c’est pour ne pas dire qu’ils sont complètement cons).

A mesure que le monde se préoccupe du bien être des animaux, des tas d’autres gros cons n’en ont absolument rien à foutre en plus grand nombre.

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Nous sommes des cons.

Manger n’a rien à voir avec aimer, mais aimer ce qu’on mange demande du réalisme.

Arrêter de manger de la viande c’est aussi faire disparaître des tas d’espèces qui ne survivront pas à l’état naturel. Le soja tue la planète et intensifie la déforestation. Le maïs consomme plus d’eau que n’importe quelle autre plante cultivée. Les exportations de fruits et légumes dans le monde polluent énormément. On détourne des quantités de rivières et de fleuves pour intensifier l’agriculture Monsanto, et on fait disparaître les rus et les rivières des cartes pour ne pas avoir à s’en soucier.

Le chef Raoni dit qu’il faut manger ce qu’on produit sur notre sol, et seulement ça. Il a raison, et c’est pareil pour la viande.

Et d’ailleurs, pour accompagner les mots de ce grand chef, il y a ce qu’on appelle généralement l’équilibre agro-sylvo-pastoral.

C’est l’aide à la fertilisation des sols par le fumier des bêtes qui fabriquent le compost. Sans les bestioles plus de sols fertiles, et sans sols fertiles plus d’agriculture, donc plus de légumes.

Sortons-nous les doigts du cul et changeons notre façon consommer (j’ai entièrement le droit de parler à des sourds).

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Et s’il faut enfin dire un dernier mot sur la consommation (car il est évident qu’il y a plus d’envies que de besoins), rappelonsnous que nos sociétés bâtissent de plus en plus de pauvres qui n’auront jamais les moyens de bien manger. C’est une raison suffisante pour foutre la morale de cette histoire de vegan aux chiottes.

Amen (ta bidoche), Touti Quanti (les émotions des plantes), et Tralala (quand on chie dans de l’eau propre)…

©Le Docteur a roté dans de l’eau propre…

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Le Noir Baiser de la Vieillesse par Michaël Potier Les bras tordus dans la fumée sinistre du squat,je danse comme un diable roux en crachant sur la poitrine diaphane des femmes saouls une chiasse machiavélique jaillit du rectum lacéré d’une petite fille obèse mon corps de chien maigre brûle d’une haine noisy un sang visqueux gicle de ma bite et vient éclabousser le visage sans yeux d’une femme voilée dans une barbarie religieuse une salope aux cheveux d’argent éructe un poème pornographique sur le sexe minuscule des petits garçons un chant d’oiseau infernal déchire l’ombre d’un corps nu je pisse sur le vagin rempli de croûtes d’une vieille femme étranglée un souffle de haschich oriental s’échappe de ma gueule fracassée comme un boucher scabreux je défonce à coups de marteau la viande rouge d’une bête blessée et mes crocs pourris dévorent la panse gélatineuse de l’animal une blessure insultante ronge la chair de mes testicules de porc malade dans une nuit perfide je pulvérise le visage d’une pute d’un jet de sperme glauque une adolescente bleue suce la queue froide d’un flic défoncé à la cocaïne dans le trou dégueulasse des chiottes nage le corps démembré d’un bébé putréfié le noir baiser de la vieillesse vient cisailler le visage maigre d’un prêtre anarchiste la gueule scotché au bar j’expulse de ma bouche une dent merdique et sur la piste de danse une petite fille hurle en chiant des larves de sang.

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Des Morsures De Diable par Michaël Potier Mon érection de chien violent pénètre la chair brune de ton anus blessé des larmes de feu dessinent sur ta joue une cicatrice fruitée ta gueule de pute accro au vin rouge est constellée de milles pustules je crève dans la merde de tes tripes comme un taureau sacrifié le sang poisseux de ta vulve d’araignée gicle sur mon visage creux je dévore ta bouche de charogne malicieuse et crache une salive sanglante dans le trou de ta gorge empoisonnée dans un bruit d’orage fiévreux un orgasme triste vient brûler tes cuisses puantes je chie des résidus d’intestins dans ta vicieuse bouche un crachat de désobéissance sur le cuir de tes fesses de vache sacrée nous hurlons comme des enfants qui meurt brûlés par la lave cruelle d’un volcan et je pisse pour marquer mon territoire sur ta peau pleine de sida dans l’abîme flamboyant de la débauche,j’éjacule une flamme cynique qui vient brûler ton pubis-poubelle des morsures de diable lacèrent ton vagin de cadavre sublime et le ciel déchiré du crépuscule dégueule de l’or dans nos cheveux de Junkie ta bouche cassée est un chiotte dans lequel je crache mes blessures alcoolisées un sang punk brûle les veines de ma gorge tordue j’éructe des paroles pleines de viande sur la gueule des petits anges qui peuplent les galeries d’art mon visage rongé par la came saigne dans la cuvette des chiottes comme une chienne brûlée d’une fièvre atroce tu lèches mes doigts plein de merde les lèvres de ta vulve syphilitique sont des morceaux de viande poétique je décapsule une bière et dans le soir naissant je crame à l’essence tes tétons de truie abjecte.

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Amour Perdu par Michaël Potier Je donne un coup de pied dans une petite fille qui saigne dans la neige un soleil japonais vient brûler son petit sexe rose je pisse sur les lumineuses traces de sang le corps d’un animal mort fume dans l’horizon rouge des oiseaux d’argent vomissent leurs chants dans les arbres nus la lune tombe dans la mer et c’est comme un fruit de sang qui colore l’écume le vent givré brûle les veines caverneuses de ma bite je chie un étron de feu dans une tanière d’animal des croûtes de pus se sont formées sur mon anus blessé par le froid au loin on peut entendre chanter les sorcières de l’hiver un paysage lépreux mange mon visage l’âme rouge d’une salope explose dans le fond de mon coeur brûlé je plonge ma tête dans la carcasse pourrie d’une bête éventrée un silence sauvage transperce ma gueule désespérée un enfant maigre suce les ombres du vent un cadavre de chien bleu nage dans la boue les veines de mes jambes éclatent et le sang gicle sur les rochers dévorés par le ciel je transpire comme un cheval blessé une diarrhée de boyaux sales jaillit de mon trou du cul d’enfant saoul et le souffle d’acier du magma défonce la chair de mon ventre je dégueule un sang brun sur les ossements d’une vierge morte la poussière se mélange à mes larmes soudain l’orage arrive et le feu des nuages pénètre ma gorge des ruines antiques brûlent le sang de mon sexe blessé se répand dans le vide une longue giclée de sperme triste jaillit dans l’air métallique j’expulse un crachat de haine sur les restes d’une charogne plus loin des tombeaux juifs brûlent dans le crépuscule et dans ma bouche de chien drogué coule l’acide d’un amour perdu.

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Dans Le Cul Des Artistes par Michaël Potier Des insectes sucent mes veines je blasphème sur le ventre pâle d’une petite princesse excisée un démon s’agite autour de mon corps en sang le sexe endurci par la haine je pénètre les tripes fauve d’une sainte mère ma gueule détruite à l’alcool fort brûle d’un désir infâme je pisse sur l’anus sucré d’une adolescente dépressive mon gosier noir avale des couleuvres de sang ma chair fond j’éjacule le poison qui ronge l’intérieur de mes testicules blessés j’égorge une bête difforme et mange la viande qui brille dans les lueurs atroces de la pleine lune je chie dans la gorge sublime d’un cadavre de vieille femme le souffle cru du vent lacère ma poitrine sale mon esprit humilié disjoncte je brûle d’un crachat de tristesse le visage peint d’une prostituée des pays de l’est j’ai sur la bouche le goût du baiser empoisonné de la dépression la mort chante dans mon trou du cul je vais mourir d’une pancréatite tandis que ta vulve de chienne dégueule des déchets de fétus au cœur de l’hiver je mange des anxiolytiques je pisse sur des œuvres d’art un jus marron gicle de ton rectum la drogue suce mon âme bâtarde je crache sur les furoncles d’une actrice porno ma langue de chien saigne le sang étrange de la virilité je plante un crucifix dans le cul des artistes.

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Chant D’amour Triste par Michaël Potier Une violence glacée brûle ma gorge trouée de fumée bleue le soleil caresse la plaie lugubre de mon ventre détruit par une passion sanglante dans le cul de la nuit je baise des sorcières virtuelles et plante mon sexe haineux dans des morceaux de viande froide le sombre parfum de la mélancolie suce ma peau de bâtard saoul ma bite est un os que les chiens de l’enfer viennent ronger dans mes nuits d’insomnies je cogne ma gueule en feu contre les murs d’un désir rouge et le bruit de mes viscères est un chant d’amour triste la musique noire des rapaces brûle le sang de mon foie je crève au fond d’un hôpital et sur mes lèvres coupées glisse l’acide du remord je chie comme un chien maigre dans la gueule brûlée d’une charogne du désert j’expulse un long crachat de pus sur le sein tatoué d’une vierge je voudrais dévorer le ventre d’un enfant et mourir étouffé par les boyaux orageux de l’insouciance je veux avaler le silence et dégueuler le feu sanglant de ma haine dans les cheveux blancs des vieilles poétesses je crache un soupir visqueux dans les lueurs enfumées de l’aube un jet d’urine sur la gorge féroce d’une veuve je tremble comme un insecte qui brûle au soleil,la bouche détruite par l’extase moisie d’un mauvais rêve mon sexe d’orphelin saigne dans la boue dans le trou des chiottes flottent mes étrons d’angoisse je suce le goulot d’une bouteille la gueule pleine de néant les sorcières de la solitude viennent lécher le sang noir de mes veines d’ivrogne un sanglot trash détruit le fond de ma poitrine je pisse des lames de rasoir et des larmes de sang cisaillent mon visage bouffé par la colère dans une douleur abstraite un démon brûle mes poumons des traces de sang séché au coin de mes lèvres tristes dans un orgasme déviant je vomis la bile du chagrin et la nuit arrive avec ses ombres sadiques qui rongent mon sexe et me plongent dans les eaux noires du blasphème.

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Prose poem by Rus Khomutoff Welcome to your afterlife hollow point arrive unfurling a gaze, valorization of "open" as opposed to "closed", pain superimposed on silence, inner parliaments and/of shadow – a liquidjewel pretty forever going any other way distancing itself from the combine, spire of deliverance on call. This ceremony of nowness peril blast alterphase after pause Ever and ever glass temple derelict warrens of the same, pendulum hold your colours-peers, pirates & persuasions, new is nothing but a restatement of the old, the sprawl of new immaterialities/interruptions, ruin, allegory, melancholy, anonymous calling- if there are mirrors they can be found in plainsong, forever true momentum surge full of stars, caught in an emotional skynet encore error anyway – the universe experiencing itself

Bizarrobot by Kenji Siratori

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Ablutions in Martinsburg, WV by Karen Breen I shaved my legs in the sink today.

The tub’s right there, but I like it primal.

And also the cat’s got this thing where he pees in the drain which is broken from too much long hair, and any time someone wants to use the tub, they have to jam a washcloth down there. Somehow even when you rinse the drain out the washcloth’ll suck up the cat piss, and then you sit in its broth when you shave your legs, cat piss noodle soup.

Silver Needles by Robert Beveridge Blood slows, takes a right at the pancreas. Impulse to stop at the soda stand not met.

Two more cigarettes and this stakeout is over—the subject is not going anywhere, may be dead in the bath for all we know.

His only claim to fame is one disjointed elbow which he can bend back into the shape of the Arc de Triomphe.

So glad you called, please come again.

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Ragecracker Benchcracker Busybody by Daniel de Culla He is. Look: He says that he has, in his body as in his soul, an Emperor fish in its own hollow metal exile with a handle and a piece of brass loose inside to make it sound when rattled like a rattlesnake.

He is a person who is enraged every moment without sufficient reason. Ragecracker like someone who crushes his price. Person of little brain and a lot of sex that dazzles with vain hopes.

He was "crushed" in the Seminary and, later, in the Army, without becoming "tiger sucker": toilet fucker; but of matins and toilet yes, as a bud of the acorn.

"Red cracker" he called his sperm when he was ejaculating, because, both in the Seminary and in the Army, they had taught to love and hate, at the same time, the red women, to whom he called "Crabs to Love" like the of the German Gestapo will did with the beautiful She Jews.

Rough, rude, making noise with his teeth, he masturbated like a pirate winding the silk of his worm, and weaving it like a rattlesnake or bunch of grapes, throwing the peels away from the place.

When he masturbated, he sang: "The Canime, Colombia tree, stuffs its root In the hole that goofy made To the wine vats Keeping his doltish face After cumming As it happened to the royal troop Expired by BolĂ­var In the famous battle of Carabobo In Venezuela" It hurt to see his prick break into pieces like clay pot.

These pieces, usually, "concave", as he said.

- Oh, my prick hulls! He said. Although he liked to rub it more than take it to the lining of a vagina. It pleased him as much or more to see the white pieces of his scattered eggs, than the fragments of artillery when a grenade exploded at the Shooting Range between Madrid and Guadalajara, where he saw their captains and generals as soliped animals, when they came and we went. mounted on horseback.

Agile or cheerful, he has helmets to the genet. His eggs are rolled like oak bark in the second shell of the cork oak, dreaming with Casilda, daughter of a Moorish king of Toledo who passed ill to Castile and converted to Christianity contemplating a small Visigoth phalometer of light construction, brought, and blessed, by a friar who came from the Crabs’ Island; Equatorial Atlantic Island, to the Orinoco embouchure on the coast of Caracas.

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Billy Luck by DC Diamondopolous first published by Defenstrationism Billy Luck’s bones rearranged themselves on the bus headed out of Gibsonton for the Tampa train station. He looked out the window, away from his trailer, all rusted, awnin torn, bricks holdin down tarp over a portion of the roof, lookin like other junkyard leftovers from his carnival days.

The bus passed an old train car that jailed tigers, vines growin through it, a giant planter. Gibsonton was a has-been like him, still some carnies left but most dead, or dyin, or just plain up and left, like his good friend Daisy, the most beautiful woman his eyes ever seen, a midget, but perfect, no matter.

Now Billy’s friends all had bodies from the shoulders up: Judge Judy, and that good-lookin gal on The People’s Court. He always took to smart, in-your-face broads—don’t take no shit type—like Daisy, who called, askin him to come see her in Miami, cause she was dyin.

What a foul mouthed little mother she been, tough, had to be, no taller than three feet, perfect proportion, and a great pickpocket, long as people was sittin down. She been with the Gerling since nineteen fifty, five years after Billy started workin the carnival, a legend, Daisy was.

He figured since she git religion, and was close to dyin, that she wanted to talk bout that night sixty-five years gone, somethin they never spoke bout, but it was there, danglin, an untouchable.

So’s Billy wondered if she got that on her mind, bein religious and all.

The bus turned the corner and he saw the corpse of a highstriker. The black numbers erodin, the bell tarnished and hangin on by a bolt. He chuckled to himself at how the marks showed off for their ladies when they took the hammer and slammed it on the lever—suckers, all of em, not knowin that life in the midway was 14

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rigged.

Billy’s memories weathered inside his head like peelin wallpaper. The old days with freaks and geeks and nights where it was so damn excitin, pickin up, settin down, movin on and on until the midway was in sight and stakes hammered, where people in scanty towns ran out to watch, hopin to catch sight of the merry-go-round or the Ferris wheel settin up, maybe glimpse a hoochie-coochie babe runnin between trailers. Billy resented the fake imitation of amusement parks nowadays, though he was glad few had animals. In his day, he’d done seen too much bad done to the beasts, Billy done seen too much cruelty, period.

Drivin along the Hillsborough River, Billy pictured Daisy as she was when he first seen her. What separated her from other midgets wasn’t just her womanly child looks but her husky voice, almost like a norm and she could sing, too. That’s what saved her when she got caught stealin at Ringlings and had to work peepshows in the basements of tenements on the lower east side. Bein a midget wasn’t freak enough she was told by the boss, “What talents do ya got?” The curtain would open and Daisy would sing, struttin her little body on the platform while doin a striptease. Her singin saved her from fuckin God-knows-what, which she wasn’t above doin.

Daisy’d do whatever to survive. She come across all innocent same as one of them dolls in the window at Woolworth’s, but if you looked long enough, you’d see lots a smarts and a cellar-full a hurts.

It was her husband, Jack, who told Billy this, who saw her in the slums and brought her to Gerling’s Traveling Carnival of Fun. Billy’s clean flowered shirt stuck to the back of the vinyl seat like loose skin bout to pare off. He used to love the humid muggy days, but now it made him tired, like standin in line for hell.

Most of the time he resisted goin down the road of the pity-pot.

It reminded him of liquor. It went down real good in the moment but the more you drink the more blurred your vision for any good

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comin your way. He knew that from his daddy, the meanest son-of-abitch to walk the earth.

The bus traveled up the I-75, crossed the river and stopped in Progress Village pickin up several black men who looked as parched and worn as Billy now felt, then the bus sped north, where there was as many as four lanes. Billy sat up. He liked the breeze stealin in through the window, how it reminded him of that time his daddy got a job drivin a bread truck and took Billy along, that was the year before his brother died from havin his innards cut from the saw. They tried to stuff em back in, but Jimmy passed. Only time he ever seen his daddy cry, why, for a moment it ripped him apart, his Daddy’s sadness, so like his own.

He blamed Billy, though he was nowheres near the sawmill. Jimmy just plum forgit to put on the safety belt.

Thinkin bout his older brother always brought on the blues, how Billy missed him. The way Jimmy throwed himself on top of him and his mama when his daddy felt like beatin em.

The night Jimmy passed, his daddy got wasted and told Billy he’d a wished it was him that died instead. He was drunk, but Billy knowed he was tellin the truth.

At fifteen, he packed a bag and hitched a ride from Montgomery to Birmingham, decided to change his last name from Lock to Luck, cause God knows he needed some and joinin the carnival seemed a good pick. He carried his hurt deep, like Daisy’s, guess that was one reason he took to her so.

He peered through the grimy pane as the bus pulled into the station. His hand reached for the back of the seat in front of him, his heart pumpin, an adventure, no matter, and Daisy lay waitin, just for him.

Everyone but Billy stood. The driver left the bus, and Billy watched as he opened the side panel and took out the suitcases.

When the last person left, he ambled down the aisle. The driver waited for him and offered a hand.

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

“I ain’t that old, I can git down myself.”

“Don’t want you to fall and sue us, young fella.”

Billy laughed. His dentures dropped. He pushed them up with his tongue, remindin him that his kisser was as fake as his hip and stepped off the bus.

“I’ve never seen a suitcase this old,” the man said, handin Billy the luggage.

“Had it since the sixties, before you was born, I bet.” Billy took the leather handle and felt the moist exchange of sweat.

“You have a good day, sir.”

“Goin to Miami, I am. On a way to see a friend.”

The man already climbed up the steps of the bus, leavin Billy talkin to himself.

He shuffled toward the train station, with the closeness of the Hillsborough

Bay;

Billy

caught

a

breeze,

rufflin

his

straggly

white hairs under the straw hat. His sense of smell worked just fine as he breathed in the sharp crude from the cargo rigs mixed with the bay.

A woman held the door for him as he headed toward her.

“Thank you, ma’am. Fine day, ain’t it?” He pointed his index finger to the brim of his

hat and winked. She smiled and hurried

on.

Air conditionin stung the sweat on his body. Billy shivered. “My God,” he whispered as he gazed around. The place was beautiful with long wooden benches, ferns growin in large pots at the end of each row. The last time he’d been here the place was fallin apart.

But now, wrought-iron gates, wall lanterns, the floor so shiny looked like you could take a dip in it, so much light from all the glass windows it seemed the sun had eyes just for the station.

He shuffled cross the depot and out the door to the number 235 train.

Climbin aboard the Amtrak, Billy strained as he stretched for the handrail and tightened his grip round the metal. The steps

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

were damn far apart for a man his age, but he made it. Course it knocked the air clean outta him.

It was stupid to act like he was younger than his years, he couldn’t hide the

hearin-aid behind his ear, the bum leg with the

dummy hip, the missin lower teeth his tongue liked to suck, or the skinny ropes of white hair once blond and thick as a Fuller Brush mop. But he ain’t gonna turn into a mark where’s he trusted someone else to tell him what was up, no, Billy thought as he put on his glasses and matched his ticket with the seat number. All he wanted right now was to be able to walk on his own and see his friend without fallin down.

He found his seat by the window, four chairs two on either side with a table between em. Not sure if he could lift his suitcase to the luggage rack without seemin lame, besides, someone might steal it, so’s Billy set it next to him on the empty chair.

He took off his hat and put it on the table. He’d never get use to people rollin their suitcases. His been a friend for years, made of wood and leather, like him gouged with character, the handle worn from his grasp of luggin it from midway to midway.

A man put his bag on the rack above where Billy sat.

“Want me to put your suitcase up?” he asked.

Billy marked him as a businessman; suit, tie, bag strapped cross his shoulder, late thirties, nothin stand-out bout him cept for the flashy watch, gold and turquoise ring, and a ruby stud in his ear that made him look ridiculous. Somethin bout him seemed familiar.

“Naw, thanks though.”

He sat cross from Billy, next to the window. Another guy stood lookin down at him from the aisle.

“You’re going to have to move your suitcase. This is my seat,” a man said, holdin up his ticket. “I’ll get it.” The guy grabbed Billy’s case, lifted the luggage and shoved it onto the rack.

The fella was closer to Billy’s age than the guy with the ruby

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and this side of obese. When he took his seat, Billy smelled Bengay. He pulled down the armrest so’s the guy’s fat would stay on his own side.

The

train

began

to

rock.

The

conductor

welcomed

the

people

aboard the Amtrak then Billy experienced the thrill of movin. The wheels forward motion caused him to lurch toward the table. He stared out the window as the air-conditionin blasted through the vents, just like old times, like watchin a movie, it was, lots of overgrown shrubs and cast-offs as rusted and troubled as his own trailer. Metal stuff with graffiti sprayed on it. Crap didn’t make no sense. Billy wasn’t great at spellin, he’d made it no farther than the

fifth grade, but what he saw out the window was nothin

but young man’s rage who don’t care whether it make sense or not, just wanna leave somethin of themselves, like a dog pissin on tires.

As the train picked up speed the cool air faded, cheap-trick, made the customer think they git their money’s worth, then slight them, like he used to do out on the bally. Can’t dupe a con, Billy thought smilin to himself.

He felt like talkin so’s he took out a quarter from his shirt pocket and rolled it cross his knobby knuckles. Not with the skill like in the old days but a conversation piece, no matter.

Sure enough, the young man cross from him raised his eyebrows and smiled.

“Where did you learn that?”

“Worked the carnival for over half a century.”

“What did you do?”

“A talker, mostly.”

The guy frowned. “A barker?”

“People don’t know nothin call us that. That’s some watch ya got there,” Billy said.

“My husband bought it for me.”

Billy grinned, it never took him long to git used to the freaks,

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like Jamie, the half man, half woman, and Angelo, with his twin’s arms and legs comin outta his gut, but it would take some time for him to git accustomed to a man callin his partner, a husband.

“Oh,” Billy said. “Guy’s got good taste. You look familiar.”

The man unzipped his bag and took out his computer. “I’m a reporter for WSFL. Maybe you’ve seen me on TV.” “That’s where,” Billy said. “Boy, do I got stories to tell you.”

But Billy read people like a canvas banner hangin in front of a sideshow. This guy was through talkin.

He put his coin away. He woulda enjoyed answerin questions. He often played the interview game, pretendin someone like Lesley Stahl asked him questions on 60 Minutes and him talkin bout his life. He imagined microphones, and lights spread all around as he sat center stage for the world to hear his story.

He woulda even enjoyed a conversation with Ben Gay, but he was too busy gawkin at his phone.

People ignorin him did have its advantages, like stealin butter and Hershey bars in the grocery store, snatchin things in the bank, like pens and paper tablets, sometimes right under the nose of the tellers, just to show em. So what if they caught him.

Billy sunk in his seat thinkin that the reporter cross from him woulda jumped through dog-hoops to interview him if he knowed what Billy had done out past the midway on that sweltering August night back in nineteen fifty.

That night, he remembered the marks had all left. But somethin nagged at him, call it sixth sense, or maybe it was that new guy who strutted into town, and took a job with the carnival, sold popcorn, cleaned up the tiger and monkey cages and the johns, jobs he did when he first joined. Billy didn’t like him from the gitgo.

One day he caught him stickin his cigarette into Tuffi. Tuffi reared on her hind legs, her trunk swingin wild. He knocked the new fella to the ground, told him if he ever caught him doin that

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again he’d make him real sorry. Well, bout two weeks later, he saw him kickin the freak, Stumpy. Billy done did what he promised. He slugged the guy so hard he doubled and rolled on the ground, moanin. Billy thought that’d be it until the guy git up and come after him swingin and givin him a black eye. Mason was his name, mean, as cruel as Billy’s daddy.

That night, Billy went from tent to tent lookin inside, makin sure no one was there. He recalled checkin under the stage where the kids used to hide so’s they could look up the costumes of the hoochie-coochie girls and how the sawdust would have to be scattered real nice like in the mornin, he could smell it now, how it always reminded him of his brother.

The trailers had their lights on. He heard laughter, people talking; ice cubes clinkin into glasses, fiddle music comin out of a radio, like any other, cept it was hotter than most, sultry, the kinda night Billy wished he had a woman to keep him company.

He was down at the end of the midway, near the draped cage where the monkeys was cooped. The sun been gone for a couple of hours, and it was like openin night for the stars, millions of em. He recalled takin in the wonder of it, magic, real magic, where the night was brushed by the stroke of a master.

Billy began to hike. In those days, he had so much sex surgin through his twenty-year-old body, some nights he just had to walk it off. Till the day he died he’d remember the moon, wide and plump, near full, the crickets loud as he headed north toward an empty field and beyond that the woods, tree branches rustlin, spiky against a dark blue sky.

Billy breathed in the air, thick with the long leaf pine. He was thinkin bout his ma, feelin blue bout leavin her behind with the devil. Billy kept walkin. His shirt drenched in sweat. He wished he had a smoke, but he kept goin, crossin the brink of the woods.

He was gonna jack-off when somethin sounded. He stopped. An animal? Yeah. A moan cut off. No. Not an animal. Somethin muffled. A

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cry. Human.

Billy led with his toes feelin for twigs and dried leaves, like huntin with his daddy. He moved toward the moan. The hairs on his body sprung up. From the light of the moon, he saw somethin white swipe back and forth cross the ground. The hunched form of a man.

The cries. Billy crept forward. Listenin. Strainin his eyes so’s to make sure.

Mason held Daisy’s face to the dirt, rapin her from behind. Her tiny fists battered the ground. Her little body struggled under his.

He sneaked up on Mason as he pumped away, groanin like a pig, loud enough so’s to make it easy for Billy to come up behind him and wrap his strong young fingers round his neck and squeeze. Mason grabbed at his hands. Billy felt his nails gouge his skin.

Blood spewed wet and sticky, but Billy put all six-foot, two-hundred pounds into stranglin him.

Sweat ran down his chin and fell on Mason’s head, Billy felt it roll off the backs of his fingers, but so tight was his hold it never got the chance to threaten his grip. With the wrong this man done to Daisy, Billy’s hands made sure Mason never do it again. He held on, even when he felt life surrender. Then, Billy rolled him on his side with Mason’s little pecker exposed. “Let me!” He remembered Daisy demandin. Pullin down her dress she done give him a kick to the nuts and then one to the face and spat on him. She looked up at Billy, hair all tangled, nose bleedin and said, “You ever say a word about this, I’ll kill you myself.” From that day on, as long as they traveled together, no one would hurt her.

Billy stared out the window, passin the North bound Silver Star, long fences of hedges, warehouses. He nodded. The conductor garbled somethin bout Winter Haven. The forward movement, the clickclackin over the rails, relivin that night with Daisy and him bein eighty-five years old—Billy slipped into darkness. ***

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

He stood with his suitcase gazin at the green home with yellow shutters, and window boxes crammed with geraniums. Its wide porch with four pillars featured a swing where as many as three people could dangle their old swollen legs. House looked to be well over a hundred years old.

Daisy and Jack invested well. Freaks always made more money than norms, at least till the sixties before it become incorrect, but midgets and dwarfs worked on, cause they wasn’t too scary lookin.

The home with a rail leadin up to the veranda reminded him of all the times he passed by in trucks and trains thankful he never had to settle down in one place, made life hard for the wives, cept for Alice, who divorced him cause he was still married to Betty. And kids? Well, he ain’t sure how many he done fathered.

None

never

showed

up

on

his

doorstep,

course

he

never

had

a

doorstep, till ’05, the year they made him retire.

He trudged up the walkway. It'd be three years since he last seen his girl. He come down for Jack’s funeral and what a spectacle it turned into, musta been more ex-carnies and circus folk there than in Gibtown; fire-eaters, sword swallowers, even a Wallenda showed up, tights an all. But Jack was no ordinary midget.

He was a magician, an entertainer, a munchkin in the Wizard of Oz, so charmin he could con a con and how he loved shootin craps.

Billy chuckled, just thinkin bout his friend Jack.

Sure enough, Billy’s pants sagged in the butt and his shirt forced its way out of his belt. If only he could turn back into that tall blond stud with light blue eyes that drove women loco.

Ah shit, least he was alive and not in some sick home like Daisy.

He held onto the railin and shuffled up the porch steps.

Billy tucked in his shirttails, he unstuck his hat from his sweaty head and steered a comb over his damp scanty hairs.

He rang the bell.

A black woman opened the door dressed in white pants and a lime-

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

green jacket. “Why, you must be Mr. Luck.”

“That’s me, Billy.”

“I’m Geneva.”

“How’s Daisy?”

“Well, Miss Daisy is having a rough day, but seeing you will lift her spirits.”

Billy wondered. She was a tightfisted little mother, always lecturin him on savin his dough. Comin down for her funeral woulda been enough money spent. But callin him before and spendin more bucks to come down after she died? Musta had somethin to do with that night, and gitten religion an all.

“Leave your suitcase and hat here in the lobby. Ruben will take it up.”

Billy stepped into a foyer with a tall potted palm tree next to a narrow table. There was a stairway in front of him and on either side the ground floor fanned out to where he couldn’t see no more, just the fronds of palm trees wavin from the air-conditionin. The place seem all spick-and-span.

“We have your room ready for you. It’s on the third floor.”

“Hope I don’t have to walk up no steps.”

“Lord have mercy! You wouldn’t find me walking up three flights of stairs. No, Mr. Luck, we had an elevator put in years ago.”

“I’d like to see Daisy, right soon. An call me, Billy.”

“Sure, Mr. Billy.”

He smiled at Geneva callin him Mr. Billy.

“We’re going to have dinner in couple of hours. Would you like to join us in the dining room?”

“That sounds right nice, ma’am.”

“Let’s go see Miss Daisy.”

Billy followed Geneva past the stairway. The house seemed bigger on the inside.

He passed a room where people watched TV with a piano off to the side, and several white-haired ladies sat on a couch. Three old

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

geezers played cards at a table, lookin like waxworks they did, till one of em eyed Billy—the scrape of emptiness passin between em.

“How sick is she?” Billy asked.

“She’s had hospice this morning. She ate some and that’s a good sign.”

“How long she gonna live?”

“Months, maybe weeks.”

“Can ya fix her with chemo?”

“Mr. Billy,” Geneva said, pausing at the doorway, “Miss Daisy refuses to have any more chemo.”

“She got tubes and needles in her?”

“No. We’re keeping her as comfortable as we can. She’s a spirited soul.”

“She always been stubborn. Her sickness got anythin to do with her bein little?”

“Not that I know of. But she’s eighty, that’s a long life.”

“Don't seem long enough even when you’s ancient like me,” Billy mumbled.

He followed Geneva though a courtyard with hangin ferns the size of bushes and flower beds, all kinds, roses, pansies, other plants and colors he didn’t know the names of, all of em shootin toward the sky.

A fountain splashed down into a small pool. Billy wiped his upper lip with his handkerchief. “My that water looks invitin,” he said.

“We have a pool. Guest are allowed to swim. If you’d like.”

“Oh I don’t look so good in trunks.” Billy chuckled. “Used to,” he added.

“Well, if you change your mind we have bathing suits for our guests.”

“Don’t think so,” he said.

Billy tried to keep up so’s not to look feeble.

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

Geneva stopped at a door, knocked and inched it open. “Miss Daisy, Mr. Luck is here.” Geneva pushed the door open for Billy to enter.

A sweet sickly smell like hamburger goin bad greeted him as he took a step inside. He’d been so eager to see her but sometimes emotions made him feel lost, runnin blind into nowhere.

Through the cracked door he saw a child’s dresser with pictures on it, a kid’s table and a small chair.

“You okay, Mr. Billy?”

“Oh, I git all sorts of tummy problems.”

He went into the room. There on a child’s bed he saw his old friend, tiny, scrunched and shriveled, her white-blonde hair thin and dull. She looked at him.

Not movin no further, he stood in the middle of the room wonderin what to say, what to do, how to bring cheer to his friend who was dyin.

He turned to Geneva. “I wanna be alone with her.”

Geneva nodded and closed the door.

Billy swallowed containin his sorrow. He felt that sudden grab that never left him alone when in Daisy’s presence, it wedded him to her like no other woman ever done. But he never seen her lookin so bad. She always wore make-up, fixed her hair, a real looker, presentin herself like a lady.

“You look swell, Daisy.” Course bullshit was like breathin for Billy.

“Liar,” she rasped.

“Ah, you gonna be okay. Bet you just layin there sick-like cause you want me to feel sorry for ya.” His jokin fell flat. “Everyone treatin you good? Geneva looks to be a right nice colored gal.”

“African American,” Daisy said.

“I forgit. Use black most of the time. Miss talkin on the phone but git your letters. You git my postcards?”

She nodded toward the dresser.

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

“I keep yours too,” he said glancin round the room that was good size even for a norm.

The window with open curtains let in light, and she had a small patio with a little chair and table right outside her room.

Everythin was make-do for her. The bathroom door was half closed and he wondered if that too was re-done.

“There’s something,” the effort to talk took her breath.

“Oh, I know you git religion and all,” Billy said, raisin his palms up. “You gonna preach, well I ain’t interested.”

Daisy scowled.

“Well, can’t be just a good-bye. You too practical for that.

So’s if you lookin for me to ask forgiveness for what I done to Mason or somethin, I ain’t gonna do it.”

Daisy rolled her eyes. “Stupid, old goat.”

Billy turned his right ear toward her. “Whatchu say?”

She shook her head. He’d seen that same scorn in her eyes when she thought he or Jack said somethin dumb.

“I heard ya.”

He felt his cheeks burn. He done read her wrong, bet she never give that night another thought. Daisy moved on, while it tailed him the rest of his life. Billy blew troubled air through his mouth. He was angry at himself, lettin Daisy know that night lived with him right up to now.

“Took a portion of my social security check to come down to see ya, so’s whatchu want?”

She

struggled

to

sit

up.

Billy

come

over

to

help

but

she

shooshed him away.

“Open

the

top

dresser

drawer,”

she

said

in

a

weak

voice.

“There’s an envelope—for you, under the garments.”

“You want me to poke around in your girlie things?”

“Go on.”

Billy shuffled over to the dresser and crouched down first on one knee then the other. He saw pictures of Jack as a young man,

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

another of Daisy lookin gorgeous in a black dress. He picked up one of the three of them together taken back in the seventies.

“Look at us then,” he said, turnin to Daisy. “That was taken the day Abner’s magic trick backfired and the dove done flown out of his fly.” Haha, haha. Billy laughed hard bringin his butt down on the heels of his tennis shoes. He glanced over at Daisy, who smiled back at him. “We seen some funny things in our time, huh, girl?”

She nodded. “The drawer,” she said in breathy voice.

Billy jiggled it open. He saw her nighties, the sheer seethrough fabric. Didn’t seem right him goin through her personals, he never so much as touched Daisy, she bein special and all. He put his hand under her clothes feelin the feminine softness till he reached the envelope. He pulled it out and shut the drawer.

Billy labored as he pushed off from the dresser to git to his feet. Once standin, he spread his legs apart to balance himself, he took his glasses from his pocket, put them on and opened the envelope. He found a paper. It looked all serious with a picture of a funeral home and a payment made for $8,500. He never liked showin how ignorant he was, and that defect git him into trouble sometimes, so’s he picked up symbols to help him along. He studied the words and pictures he knew, three plots, one taken. He looked at Daisy. She done wanted him buried with her and Jack. It touched him, she wantin him near her.

“I coulda used the money it took to buy this.”

“You would have wasted it on whores.”

“Hell, nowadays thinkin bout a roof that don’t leak turns me on more than a long legged hooker.”

Billy took off his glasses. “So’s that why you called for me to come?”

“I want you buried with Jack and me.”

“That’s mighty nice, girl,” he said. “Just thought the county would come take my ole body and cremate me or somethin. Didn’t

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

give it no thought.” He stuck the paper in his back pocket. “Never did git use to livin in one place even after ten years. Guess when we die, we don’t have much choice. Glad I’ll be with friends, least my ole bones an all.”

He went to the chair by her bed and sat down. “I hate bein old.

Live in my memories I do, cause that’s where I feel safe.” He stared down at his hands, hands that once could do anythin. He kept his eyes lowered, feelin blue, sad for the way life turned on Daisy. “Least you git religion,” he said, lookin up.

Her eyes roamed his face.

“Daisy? You okay?”

“I always believed,” she whispered. “I just never talked about it.”

“Well, you full of surprises. I never knowed that. Never heard you say peep bout God till you git sick.” Billy chuckled. “You didn’t live like no Christian, stealin and all.”

“God forgave me.”

Billy figured if God was in the business of judgin he wasn’t worth glorifyin.

“The bathroom. Cabinet.” Daisy sighed. “There's a brown bottle.

Bring it to me.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“Medicine.”

“Want me to git Geneva?”

“No.” “What kinda medicine?”

“Morphine.”

“Geneva give you the right dose.”

“Not the dose I want.”

He crossed his arms and tilted his head back squintin at her.

“Whatchu askin me is a big deal.”

“If I could get it I would.” She winced.

He hobbled to the slidin door where he looked out on the lawn

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

with the plastic pink flamingoes and alligator steppin stones. He gazed past the hedges, where he could see through the leaves to the pool beyond. He looked back at her. “I ain’t takin your life.”

“I’m not asking you to.” She slumped further into the pillows.

“What your maker think bout this?”

“God doesn’t want me to suffer.”

“We don’t know nothin till we die,” Billy said.

She stared at the bathroom, her lower lip juttin, gave him the silent treatment, she did.

He looked out the window thinkin bout what Daisy wanted. He saw dashes of white and printed bathing suits, people goin for a swim.

He raised his hand to the curtain and pulled it all the way back as if some kinda wisdom was out there waitin, just for him.

Billy scratched his arm. He raked his neck. His whole body crawled with sadness. “Oh girl, I know you feelin bad.” He shuffled to the side of the bed. He bent so close to Daisy he smelled the rot comin off her. “You been my family. My little sister.”

Billy sniffed. “Think I’m gitten a cold from all the air condition.”

“It’s a brown bottle,” she said. “Bring it.”

“Geneva gonna know I git it for you.”

“She won’t. It’s time, Billy.” Her voice sounded tinny, like comin through a pipe, it did.

Through the years he denied her nothin, the only woman who could make him walk through fire and feel privileged to do it.

He felt Daisy watchin as he crossed to the bathroom. He went inside. It was a place for norms, even the john. Billy opened the cabinet door and saw several brown bottles, two, with paper round the neck. He took the open one and went back to Daisy.

“You done planned this all along, you little con.” But Billy couldn’t be mad, just mystified at the way he was fated to this woman.

“Give me the bottle,” she whispered. “And hand me my juice.”

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

Billy saw the glass on her nightstand and give it to her.

She poured the medicine. She swished the morphine round and drank. “Put it back.”

Billy set the glass on the stand, returned to the bathroom and did as Daisy said. He shut the cabinet door and glimpsed his reflection, turnin away so’s not to remember the moment. Grabbin the doorknob to steady himself, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He limped back to the chair. He moved it as close to the bed with him still able to sit.

“Thank you, Billy.”

Seemed his whole life got stuck in his throat. He cleared it.

Coughed. “Ah girl,” he said. “I didn’t do me no favor. Who do I got now?” He reached for her tiny hand. Her frail fingers slid through his. Like a bird, she was, flying over the carnival with the merry-go-round music blarin, the Ferris wheel turnin, the people all happy cause they feelin free, in one hand they eatin cotton candy, the other holdin the hand of a sweetheart.

He let go of Daisy.

Billy done feel like his life folded, where his heart was ground into sawdust and just blowed away leavin him alone on the midway.

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A Guy Walks Into a Bar by David Lewitzky It’s a Shangri-La, and lost legions wander in a wishy-washy eternal spring, it’s a hospice full of broken soldiers, a minor myth; It’s the stadium of war, the playoff for the trophy of the dead and steaming cow; the rainbow over every bloody battlefield that ever was; It’s a Paradise of deadbeats, torpedoes, schmendricks; it’s blind flight, the felony of innocence, a disappearing garden; It’s a Dante hellscape/heavenscape, weird woods, gravel foothills, a thin air wheeze, angels in the rain with soggy wings, muddy inconclusive circles; It’s the first bar and the last bar, a factory of masks and ghosts, a Night-Town downtown station of the cross….

A Guy walks into a bar: It’s a blue movie stag the night before the wedding, a smarmy baby shower, a Bar Mitzvah show off rite of passage, a carnival where no one shows their age and no one’s getting any younger; It’s après-ski, theater intermission, relaxation after work, a marquee proclaiming failure, the lobby of disappointment; It’s night thoughts, troubled sleep, meditations on mortality, a gallery of dreams of death, invasion dreams, dreams of revolution; the human comedy, a joke; It’s an inner circle round table and the table talk’s of destiny: The sudden, stomach-churning, endless fall, the ascent into the heavens It’s groping for enlightenment, a seminar on the stars, on recklessness and symmetry, a company of voyagers searching for the seeds of sympathy, compassion…

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A Guy walks into a bar: He’s Ishmael/Ahab/Maximus, Yossarian/McMurphy, Huck Finn, Karamazov, Humbert Humbert; He’s Evangeline, Anna Karenina Bovary, a beguiling hooker, Mary the Madonna, Nancy Drew, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm; He’s on the run, a wandering Jew, he’s Jean Valjean, escapist Kilgore Trout, raging seeker Bigger Thomas, he’s Michelangelo’s perfect pecker David; He’s Lot,shuttling back and forth between the Cities of the Plain, and Job who never gets a break; He’s Lonesome Adam on the make, portentous shipwreck sailor Noah/Jonah, disgraced offender, Jailbird Cain; that bland and boring loser, Dead Duck Abel….

A Guy walks into a bar…

Walks into a bar…

Into a bar…

A bar….

33

Datura #5 | 10_2019

Fill the Void by Deborah Guzzi After: Title Unspecified, by Jean "Hans" Arp 1950s. hands, eyes, and tongues explore the glacial emptiness of each hollow netted in a void of palatial emptiness skinned white, polar-bared, trapped forms try to escape the stone of core seekers who abhor facial emptiness misnomers writhe, knobs of knees, elbows, and groin, sheet-pushed against a threshold of spatial emptiness this jack yearns for the bounce of ball and strum of thumb for indescribable is the wretchedness of racial emptiness

Genetic Predispositions by Deborah Guzzi The only one, the solitary egg, polished, petted, preened; ah yes, groomed for success, ingrained with a genetic time-bomb.

Levity rises, all-important, for the gifts of the mother scar unknown and unnoticed.

Only laughter, thigh-slapping, face cracking, tumbles of hysteria harasslaughter cleanses.

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

i. Getting Off In Peru by Gerard Sarnat from [OB] NOXIOUS Into Lima for short pitstop after trekking the Amazon with my son we tried to dry Angel’s Trumpet one guide had shown him how to find -- on a lampshade above low-watt bulbs – which did not work so well but we decide, Smoke it anyway then consider us to be stoned enough to tell stories about bussing into notoriously tough downtown especially how somebody sitting across snatched our gold glasses, quickly got off.

The Lima-Huancayo Railroad, 1944

35

Datura #5 | 10_2019

My Copperhead Encounter by John Grey At first, I thought him a limb or vine floating on the surface of the brackish pond.

Nerves rippled up my spine as he wriggled up onto the bank and then lay still, half-curled around an oak stump.

Death was my first thought.

Not just to frogs and rodents.

But to the carefree woods, the hiking trails.

His snout lifted slowly, brown cross-bands primed by light and shadow, as spine and fangs steadied themselves for ambush.

I retraced my steps to the car but without a thought for wildflowers, birds and mammals.

I thought the woods were my native environs.

But his slither, my shiver, corrected me.

36

Datura #5 | 10_2019

Into the Woods Once More by John Grey We take a trail between the pines, as silent as the pews of a church on Monday but for the whisper of a single oak leaf to the wind that carries it away.

The deer isn’t expecting company.

But, before it runs off, it takes one hard look at us, balancing fear and curiosity the way I do with the people I meet.

Of course, I don’t sprint away into the heart of the forest on such dainty limbs.

Once the sun goes down, my friends and I build a fire, sit around it, imagine we’re pioneers as we sing the latest pop songs in drab harmony.

Geese will join in. as raccoons scratch their way close enough to smell our food supply.

We feel nature’s light grip on our reins, growing in presence in proportion to the dying of the flame.

Later, we sleep in tents, huddled together, for warmth of course but also so our humanity’s not overshadowed by strange sounds, cryptic, secretive surrounds.

We don’t belong here.

We are too civilized by half.

But we find joy in someone else’s laughter.

So why not commune in a strange, unknowing faith.

37

Datura #5 | 10_2019

In a Previous Death by John Grey I was washed and dressed, covered in cloth, sniffed all over by a four-eyed dog to make sure there was no life left in me.

Then I was carried to the top of something called the Tower of Silence, stripped naked, and exposed to the hot sun and orbiting birds of prey.

My soul stuck around in my body for the requisite three days before it was taken to the Bridge of the Requiter for final judgment.

Meanwhile, a bunch of my musical friends organized a concert in my honor and some fellow poets read the usual requiems.

It was definitely an improvement on being dumped in a hole in the ground and eaten away by worms and weevils.

Except I was dead.

The comparison eluded me.

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

masks on the wall by Michael Spring masks on the walls are moving their mouths I cannot hear what they say ravens have my left-brain outside punking it with their beaks I’m startled yet entertained a crack in the ceiling appeared the day love pushed me away is this why the masks are so desperate to talk to me? the crack is shattering the room in slow motion I’ll crank the music and pound the drums I want to help the crack expand until the ceiling caves in and if I’m lucky the masks will be smashed in the rubble (did I just say that out loud?) the masks try to talk to me sticky voices try to stick to me but most of my attention is sunk into the darkness of the raven’s feathers the masks look so silly chewing the air I’ll walk away I need to know who I am without them the ravens did me a favor given me a window out I open my arms mimicking wings yes I say yes they say and my left-brain slides back to me

39

Datura #5 | 10_2019

Under the Covers with the Rain by John Tustin Under the covers with the rain And the lightning and the streaks of wetness Trickling down the window, Assaulting every crevice and cranny of the local earth.

Warm under the blanket, Cool against the sheet, In here I am safe from everything But myself.

The thunder rumbles as if a truck in the alley.

The street alight with anger through the blinds, I turn away from the flash and settle in, Closing my eyes to bulwark: A rampart against the rain and the tears And the dark clouds and the dimmed stars And the thoughts And the misery infesting this room.

Living in stillness, deceived, double-crossed, A victim of myself: Devalued, deflated, dismissed; Betrayed by omission, denial And silence.

I try to close my mind and stretch my body, Close my body and stretch my mind, Alive but dying, Wondering why I am alone here But also knowing.

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

Unmagical by J. J. Steinfeld first published in Animal Day II (A Not One of Us Special Publication) (US), and included in Tigershark Magazine (UK).

All night, exhausted by disbelief wearied by incomprehension you practise your magic trick after mind-dazzling trick turning your older self into your younger self turning missed opportunities into accomplishments turning a broken heart into a loving memory turning faltering thoughts into resounding insights turning draining unfairness into invigorating justice turning an unlikely prediction into a substantiating fact turning a sad funeral into miraculous birth.

Then you acknowledge to the future and the past that you have no audience no verification of your magic or even your existence that your existential anxiety will render any performance unmagical.

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Datura #5 | 10_2019

The Endless City by Nicola Vallera “Jack? How many times do I have to repeat it?” Mister Brown said. His pale finger tapped a yellowish document on a desk.

With window,

his Jack

back

on

Taylor

the

compact

opened

his

city’s

mouth

skyline

to

outside

complain,

but

the the

supervisor interrupted. “No way, Jack. The Manual of the Perfect Social Worker says you must fill out the Q-form first. Did you do that?” He cocked his head sideways and waited for Jack’s answer.

“How can I fill out the form when I’m traveling from Patient 7’s to Patient 5’s apartment?”

“No, Jack, it’s a no-no. That’s not how we operate here. How can we keep things in order in an endless metropolis if we don’t take care of your work?” Brown growled, “You don’t get it, do you, Jack? You’re a miserable failure.”

A twenty-something typist in a tight dress sauntered past Jack's desk. Brown’s eyes followed her, and he forgot about Jack.

The fruity scent drew the supervisor like the Pied Piper charmed rats.

Brown

didn’t

give

Jack

a

chance

to

answer.

Instead,

he

hurried to catch up with her.

Jack sighed and dropped the form on his coffee-stained desk where piles of unfinished documents obstructed the view enough for him to enjoy a few instants of privacy.

Fed up with the events, he leaped to his feet, grabbed his briefcase, and rushed to the door. “There goes my raise.”

The skyscrapers outside, like giants creatures, dwarfed Jack as if he were a cockroach at their feet. Their windows glared hate, and the streets’ fearful din panicked Jack so much he fought his

way

through

the

crowd

and

found

station’s mouth. *

42

refuge

inside

the

subway

Datura #5 | 10_2019

The

subway

train

jolted,

jerked,

and

braked.

The

motion

interrupted Jack’s thoughts. Should finish on time today. I bet Asshole Brown will force me to rewrite a couple of documents. Agh! What kind of life is this?

Occupied with his thoughts, he reached the elevator in his patient’s building. I hate my job. I’ve always loathed it. Here I am, full of debt. It’s a shit life 24/7.

The 13th story’s door opened in little jerks. Jack kicked it, “Damn it.” The click-clack of his shoes on the black and white corridor amplified his sense of loss. Apartment 1398 waited for him in its darkness. He knocked but found the door slightly open, pushed it with his fingers, and hissed, “Mister Allende? Are you there?”

Allende didn’t answer. Another push on the door, and the stark,

one-room

apartment

revealed

an

old

man

in

an

armchair

silhouetted by the window.

“Mister Allende, I’m Jack Taylor, the social worker, remember me?”

The man appeared to focus his sight on a squalid building across the street.

What’s

so

exciting

about

a

massive,

hive-like

tower,

screening the view, for instance?

“Mister Allende, do you remember me?”

A moment of silence followed. The man nodded but didn’t take his eyes from the window.

“Do you need anything?”

A shaky voice answered, “I’m fine. You can go.”

I’m fine, he says? Fine? What does fine mean to a man like him? What’s the point of living like a vegetable? Besides, if my idiotic boss doesn’t stop his crusade against me, I’ll become just like Allende.

43

Datura #5 | 10_2019

The dim corridor, the unstable elevator, and the street gave Jack

the

impression

they

whispered

and

tried

to

tell

him

something.

“If they weren’t inanimate objects, I might think they spoke in some strange language. How weird,” Jack mumbled.

From behind, a sickening thud came as if a sack of concrete hit the sidewalk. Someone shrieked, and a taxi crashed into a car.

Everybody in front of Jack turned to see what happened. One woman covered her face with her hands, and a man screamed. Jack turned and saw a body on the sidewalk. He slumped on his knees, unable to cry, unable to think. Blood flooded half sidewalk, and Mister Allende’s remains were not different from a deflated balloon.

“Oh, no. Oh, no. This shouldn’t have happened. My fault, my fault. Brown will burn me alive.” * Jack’s office lights flickered on Brown’s fierce eyes. “You were there to check on Mister Allende, Jack. How come you didn’t know the man was suicidal? His blood is on your hands.” Brown slammed Jack’s appointment book on the desk. “You neglected the old

man’s

depression.

You

might

have

saved

his

life,

but

no.

You’re an incompetent moron.”

Jack exploded from his chair and kicked it into the desk behind him. He raised his fists and yelled, “Know what? You’re a jerk. Ask anybody. You’re a damned jerk.”

Jobless and furious at the world, Jack hastened his walk home like a passenger about to lose his train.

What will I do now? No job, full of debt, and alone in this shitty megalopolis. No one knows where this city ends. I am a prisoner.

“Hey, you.” Jack smirked to a man with a broom in his hand.

“Do you know how to get out of this megalopolis?”

The worker paused his sweeping to peep at Jack. “You mean the city’s end? What’re you talkin’ about, pal?”

44

Datura #5 | 10_2019

“Hu-hum,” “Didn’t you learn nutin’ in school, pal? Don’t you understand nobody can answer your silly question?” The tiny man turned his back.

Jack reached his building and grimaced at the piles of filthy sweaters and pants on the couch. His foot hit an empty bottle of detergent on the way to the refrigerator. Nothing but a rotten baloney sandwich stood in front of him when he opened the fridge door.

The whole slew of bills he had thrown on the carpet in the morning rustled and produced a kind of paper language.

“Pay, pay, and pay,” said Jack, “Nothing but pay. I should survive for a couple of weeks on my savings.” He scratched his chin and shook his head. “Will I ever find another job?”

Like a zebra searching for a pond during the dry season, he rushed outside and flew to his bank.

The bank manager shook his head. Jack’s heart hammered like a piston.

“Sorry, sir, your employer took all your savings.”

“What? How is that possible?”

The expressionless cashier tapped the screen with the tip of his pen. “There’s a clause in your contract, Mister Taylor.”

“What kind of clause?”

“Unfortunately, it allows the company to seize your money if your termination is the result of…” The man raised his brows.

“Of what?”

“Incompetence, sir.”

“Shit!” * A ghost-hiss barely reached his ears when Jack returned to his building.

Is the building talking to me? No, it doesn’t make sense.

45

Datura #5 | 10_2019

He stuck the keys into the lock, but the cool steel muzzle of a .45 pressed to his temple.

“Give me your damn money now!” a frightful voice blasted.

The thief snatched Jack’s last bucks and vanished.

An icy voice said, “You’re a loser, Jack.”

“Who’s talking? Show yourself?” He jerked his head right and left and saw the dark street but not a soul.

The mysterious voice continued, “I’ll crush your worthless bones and recycle your ashes into construction material to build skyscrapers, roads, and public toilets.”

Am I getting crazy? Geez, I hear voices. Agh, let’s focus on urgent issues. I’m positive my stress caused the hallucination.

No matter how hard he attempted to solve his problems, no solution came. Jack found himself in an onion-soup-reeking alley full of graffiti on its walls.

“I cannot afford a piece of stale bread. Should I pawn my fridge? Damn, I’m dying for a piece of bread.”

The adventure through the hidden alley ended at the back door of a restaurant. What if I ask for leftovers?

A day-old cheeseburger and a pack of stringy French fries didn’t solve his problem. With a rancid taste in his mouth, he left the alley behind and emerged on the high road.

Two panhandlers rummaged in the garbage by a wall. “Are you satisfied with your shitty life, asshole?”

Darkness

lay

like

a

threat.

A

shabby

woman

in

the

crowd

leaned close and whispered, “You won’t win, Jack.”

“Who the hell are you?” Jack shouted.

The woman melted into the mob, and Jack wondered whether his eardrums had twisted her words.

Days and months passed. A thinner Jack lost his apartment and got by thanks to charity. Some people cursed him, others kicked his butt as if he were a stray dog, but a few offered help. He

46

Datura #5 | 10_2019

relied on cheap food, but some days, people gave enough money to rent a filthy room at the worst hotel in the area.

One muggy night, he crossed a familiar park where flashing lights caught his attention. Those are police’s cars? I hope they let me sleep on the bench. What are they doing? They’re frisking somebody. Drug dealers? Oh-oh, thank God they are arresting the crooks. Well, all clear now. I can find my usual bench.

A metallic object below the bench caught his attention, and it resulted in being a powerful, semiautomatic gun, the kind of weapon tough guys use to blow heads off in the movies.

“Umm, one of those bandits must have dropped it here when police arrived.”

Like an archaeologist eager to analyze primitive artifacts, he held the gun on his lap for a few minutes, unable to take his eyes off the object.

Would I have the gut to rob people with this? What can I lose?

Between thoughts, he caught a glimpse of a shoe store. I Own You, Jack. His head jerked sideways, and cold sweat invaded his temples. “Wait. What? Did I read those words on the sign?”

His peeled eyes reattempted the reading. Another Kick – Shoes For Every Age, stood out in bright, purple letters on the sign.

He shook his head. “Phew, I’m not crazy. Okay, Jack, forget it. You are sane. Dirt poor but sane.”

A well-dressed couple emerged from a taxi on a wide boulevard outside the park. Their laughter filled the wet air, and they approached a building door, between “I love you” and “would you like to come upstairs?”

Now or never. Come on, Jack, it’s just you and them. The gun handle scorched under Jack’s tight and sweated grip. He flanked the couple and pointed the gun at the woman who almost choked from fear. Then, he directed the barrel at the man who quivered. “P – please, don’t harm us. I’ll give you everything.”

47

Datura #5 | 10_2019

He snatched the bucks and dropped the wallet in a mailbox.

Finally, he could afford a decent hotel.

“Gotta get out of here before the cops come, I’ve had enough of this megalopolis where the foul supervisors thrive, and the citizens like me live like hyenas. Need some fresh air.”

“You talk to me, dude?” A pimply teenager said.

“Buzz off, you idiot,” Jack snapped.

A travel agency’s sign caught Jack’s eyes and attracted him like a light bulb does with a moth. “Is there any flight to take me out of this hell?”

“Nobody knows that, Mister,” the agent said, “the longest flight, 27 damn hours, will take you to a place called Labusalle.

Whether it is within the city’s limits or not, it’s hard to tell.

Honestly, I don’t believe there’s such a thing as out.”

I must beat this lousy metropolitan nightmare.

The

city

stretched

its

limbs

everywhere,

even

when

Jack

watched out the airplane’s window. Like a cancerous mass, highways and

skyscrapers

filled

the

land

below

until

the

horizon

and

appeared to form a pattern. The pattern formed letters, and the letters shaped words. Jack read the words and broke in a cold sweat. You are doomed.

He lived the following months like an Old West bandit. He stole from everybody, even a policeman and a nun.

In a catch-a-thief event, the police fired a few shots, and the bullets missed Jack by inches. He took a train a day in his endless

journey

authorities

never

in

search

caught

of

him

the because

city’s Jack

boundaries.

The

was

one

always

neighborhood ahead, frustrated but alive. One district followed another, and another, and another. The buildings, the avenues, the vehicles, the people, and even the manholes where always the same, but somehow, different.

48

Datura #5 | 10_2019

“Damn; I’m still in the wicked megalopolis,” Jack screamed.

His fists clenched in the middle of an indifferent crowd. “You foul megalopolis? What d’you want from me?”

“You are hopeless, you silly, little man. There is no way out. Face the truth.”

Every building, vehicle, and store sign twisted like a Cubist painting. Jack felt dizzy and shut his eyes. “You won’t get me, you ghastly city.”

“Dream on, Jack.”

“Who is it? Come out if you dare, you coward.”

“Jaaack?” a singsong voice called. television

store’s

window.

Every

No one was nearby but a

TV

screen

broadcasted

one

grinning woman who waved her hand. “Haven’t you got it yet, Jack?”

Jack flung himself against the window. People sped away from him as if he were a rabid dog. Some workers behind the window swapped glances one another.

A

middle-aged

man

walked

past

Jack

and

said,

“I

am

everything. You’ll never find the exit because there is no exit, you midget.”

“What did you say, asshole?” Jack grabbed the man’s collar.

“I said nothing. Please, let me go.”

Jack’s

eyes

found

the

peaks

of

the

skyscrapers.

All

the

windows crumpled like demon’s eyes.

“You covet for my blood, and here I am. Yes, you won, you monster.”

Jack’s screams changed to manic laughed. The hideous city roars

filled

his

skull,

and

Jack

everything.

49

understood.

He

understood

Datura #5 | 10_2019

Piss Talks (excerpts) by Harry R. Wilkens from http://www.ustinovforum.com/articles/piss-talks Charity A tin of dog-food would save a little negro’s life. But Westerners prefer keeping it themselves and rather would send dog-shit to Africa, as they badly need it for their own old folks. 36 Warriors They were fighting body to body (and what bodies!) on the beach of Budva in Montenegro. No casualties insofar, only some broken hearts of sun-bathing girls unnoticed by their heroes.

Fata Morgana Ali and I were on night shift in the desert tent watching that porno video on our Panasonic portable. When that gorgeous French girl shoved her buttocks nearly out of frame I couldn’t restrain myself: I slowly shoved my little finger into her pink pussy. It worked and was wet and tasted like any honeypot. Then I probed the tiny bunghole with my other little finger. It was tight, but worked. Until Ali told me to get off the screen.

Redemption Spread the fun in the Balkans with Skippy Super Chunk Peanut Butter, donated by the People of the United States of America.

With a coupon for a free toy redeemable at your next store.

Calcutta Humanity pure, no sentimental humanitarianism: stray kids & dogs, hungry despite the enormous waste of money & food. Beggars dreaming of pulling a rickshaw, rickshaw-pullers dreaming of a rebirth as a rickshaw-biker, until in another life their karma will finally make them the driver of a taxi powered by pig-shit, their own excrements being recycled into food for a shit-powered humanity. Amidst this chaos of desperate survivors, minds get as black as the hole in which this futuristic vision will once collapse.

50

Datura #5 | 10_2019

Real World Looking down from the 4th floor restaurant into the street, in the bustling lunch-time crowd two men are leisurely walking their tiny sexy DOGS. I wonder if this happens too in Cairo or in Calcutta.

Amongst diplomats perhaps, but they’d rather leave this job to their wives and prefer jogging. Maybe in Cairo or Calcutta men are walking their KIDS, or just all their WORRIES.

Stormy Sky above Kolkata by Sergio

51

Datura #5 | 10_2019

Notre République (extrait), par Léonel Houssam. Editions Burn Out La sueur dévoile des nébuleuses grises 42ème jour "Tu es une salope comme toutes les autres. Mais t'as un truc en plus, un sursaut, je sais pas, t'as un peu la bouche pâteuse quand

tu

jouis

et

tu

trimes

dur

avec

tes

hanches.

T'es

plus

accessible, t'es plus ouverte, t'es cool" Les draps couvrent leurs deux corps. La sueur dévoile des nébuleuses grises, des comètes jaunes. Il avale son whisky par petites saccades nerveuses.

"Faut vraiment que je me lève. J'ai trop bien baisé mais il faut que je contrôle" Sa grande silhouette athlétique trace une ombre immense sur la dalle bétonnée du grenier. Il fait quelques ablutions dans le pot de chambre transformé en lavabo de fortune.

Attic by James C. Farmer

52

Aux éditions Urtica. Déjà parus Les biques suivi de Le prince Guido de Patrick Boutin 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

Poèmes 1993-2001 de Walter Ruhlmann 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

Journal de Jan Bardeau ...ce livre porte la marque du style de Jan Bardeau.

Un côté distingué et un autre foutraque, voire barbare, à la fois. Une façon très imagée de décrire la marginalité, avec beaucoup d'humour, mais sans illusions.

Patrice Maltaverne, Poésie chronique ta malle, 2019 8€ (plus frais de port – 154 pages noir et blanc – ISBN : 978-0-244-79269-5

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 5 – OCTOBER 2019 – ISSN : 2646-2257 – LEGAL SUBMISSION (TO BNF) : ON PUBLICATION – SPECIAL PRINTING – MASTHEAD : WALTER RUHLMANN 11 RUE GILBERT SALAMO 11510 FITOU – FRANCE © DATURA & CONTRIBUTORS, OCTOBER 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°5 – OCTOBRE 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, OCTOBRE 2019 ADRESSES : https://revuelitterairedatura.blogspot.com/ – mgversion2datura@gmail.com Photocopied : France : €2 – Europe : €4 – World : €8 (shipping included)