Datura Issue 7 April 2020

Datura #7 | 04_20

BARNES – BRETT – BURZ – CANIS – DAY – FOX – GREY – HOLLAND – HOUSSAM – KONSTANTIN – MAOLALAI – MITCHELL – HOLLAND – TUSTIN - UKACHUKWU

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: Jeffrey Scott Holland. Illustrations: Jeffrey Scott Holland Jeffrey Scott Holland, (born May 13, 1966), is an artist, writer and musician living both in New York City and in Louisville, Kentucky. He is an active member of the Stuckist and Remodernist art movements.

In addition to painting, Holland also works in photography, sculpture, graffiti, and mixed media. He is also the author of books Weird Kentucky, The Moleskin Checklist, and Undomesticated.

From wikipedia.org, edited.

Docteur Burz: editorial DS Maolalai: I Used to Be a Poet Jack T. Canis: Chameleon John Grey: You Go Your Way and Her Best Christopher Barnes: Liberty Atoms 6-10 J. Randall Brett: Flying Is Holly Day: The First Time Mark J. Mitchell: Injured Orbit Wade Fox: A Singular Absence John Tustin: Rots & The Worms Drown Paul Konstantin: Les yeux Obilo Ukachukwu: Covid 19 Léonel Houssam: deux extraits de Notre République (roman)

Datura #7 | 04_2020

Editorial Crise sanitaire ? Et l’économie de mon cul, c’est combien aux municipales ? par le Docteur Burz Déjà paru dans https://ledocteurburz.wordpress.com/ le 14 mars 2020

Au stade où on en est, on ne parle plus de virus mais de l’économie d’un virus. Non, il ne s’agit pas de son amoindrissement, mais des conséquences de son coût sur notre quotidien. Et cela prend de plus en plus d’importance dans le débat, au point de reléguer la situation sanitaire au second plan.

Si la surinformation est une des causes de la psychose des gens autour du phénomène, sa perception en tant que responsable de catastrophe économique est, elle, une constante de notre système qui dépersonnalise l’humain.

Les bourses sont capables de s’effondrer par anticipation, avant même que la prise en compte humanitaire soit effective auprès des populations. Quelquefois effective de rien du tout, à l’image de l’Éducation Nationale, qui préfère arborer une position presque neutre, plutôt que d’expliquer clairement qu’on veut des gosses à l’école pour ne pas avoir des parents qui ne vont pas au boulot pour s’occuper d’eux. Dans ce contexte politico-économique, il apparaît amer de constater qu’on a encore plus peur d’un effondrement économique majeur que de protéger véritablement la population d’un virus difficilement cadenassable.

Les vieux c’est bon, ils sont parqués, pas grave s’ils meurent dans la solitude, c’est plus ou moins la fonction de l’Ehpad. Les entreprises doivent fonctionner, faire du chiffre, toujours plus.

L’enfant sert ici d’otage à la consommation, il devient la

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quintessence du pouvoir économique. Notre système capitaliste est faussement démocratique, et transforme très vite une crise sanitaire en crise économique qui se fout bien de nos vies… mais pas de notre capital d’apport à son fonctionnement. * Norvège : plus de 700 cas, zéro mort, toutes les écoles sont fermées.

C’est un exemple pris au hasard mais il est représentatif d’une perception de l’humain. Partout dans le monde on attend que l’obligation soit faite d’être au bord du gouffre, pour annoncer aux populations qu’ils vont porter la responsabilité d’une récession sans fin qui totalitarise leurs besoins.

Crise sanitaire mon cul ! C’est la crise économique du trop plein d’activités mortifères et inutiles qui, ici, prend son essor final.

Le niveau de con-sommabilité du monde est monté à un stade hors norme. A tel point que son fonctionnement est irrémédiablement impossible à endiguer. A part un aveugle effondrement caractéristique du jusqu’au-boutisme, dont Macron devrait faire ce soir son credo devant les Français (nous sommes le 12 Mars il est 19h30), la décroissance choisie n’aura jamais lieu. * – je reviens après son discours pour la 2ème partie*

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Pas aussi pire que prévu. Néanmoins, si son premier 1/4 d’heure de diatribe semblait particulièrement rassurant, sur le respect des mesures nationales et les encensements des professionnels de santé, le deuxième 1/4 m’est apparu dispensable, voir complètement disloqué.

Mais au final ça reste Macron. Il profite (comme tout président a su le faire avant lui) des événements pour paraître socialement plus pondéré, presque compatissant. Et comme un Hollande a profité des attentats de 2015, Macron profite du COVID-19 pour rassembler les foules après une impopularité cumulée et grandissante.

Peu importe l’issue de la pandémie, monsieur le premier du nom n’aura pas réussi à m’émouvoir. Certes, il aura pris des décisions attendues pour les enfants. Certes, il aura eu ses petits mots doux pour les travailleurs sociaux. Certes, il aura fait front à la télé, mais avec un prompteur vivant aussi manche qu’un journaliste de TPMP pour badigeonner ses corrections alors qu’un vrai prompteur tournait pour sa gueule à lui. Limite, ça fait colonialiste qui cause assis sur le dos d’un nègre, stigmatisé par la pression d’essayer de relever un défi pour sa carte de séjour.

Les compétences hein, c’est important qu’il a dit.

Le rassemblement tout ça. La nation et tout le bordel qui va autour. Le truc qui racle au fond du gobelet, pour faire chauffer les cartes d’identités aux municipales. Ça sent légèrement la reprise de volée pour botter en touche pendant un match à huit clos, avec des supporters confinés dehors qui se lèchent les mains séchées au gel hydroalcoolique pleines de fumigènes de la CGT. Le Corona oui ! Mais les municipales d’abord ! Parce qu’on ferme les écoles, on conseille aux gens de limiter leurs déplacements, mais faut aller voter, c’est super important, le truc qu’on ne

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peut pas reporter quoi, c’est politiquement une urgence sanitaire voyez…

Il l’a dit Macron, la santé n’a pas de prix, il n’y aura aucune économie sur le sujet, peu importe les sommes engagées. Et là tu penses aux millions de personnes qui manifestent depuis des mois, des années pour que les hôpitaux puissent fonctionner humainement parlant. Du jour au lendemain, l’argent n’a plus d’importance, alors que c’était le nerf de la guerre avant.

Aujourd’hui il est de gauche, mais tout ça nous le payerons ensuite, quand il redeviendra de droite. * Amen (ton virus), Touti Quanti (les municipales) et Tralala (l’économie)… ©Le Docteur vous ravitaille en matière première politique.

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I used to be a poet

by DS Maolalai I see myself sometimes in a far off future's eye, living at sixty or seventy years old, fat, well-polished, and finally getting known; books in print and waterlogged from toilet tiles dropped on three continents, paid speaking engagements and young women being impressed in libraries while I laugh, say clever things, offer them a signature and pass out wine like wildflowers.

I see myself shining, met by reporters fresh on the deck of a yacht (owned by a wealthy friend of course even I know that poetry has limits) my belly open in my shirt and cracked lobsters with hot butter, and rattling up something each evening on an old fashioned typewriter in an attic room at a desk facing a window overlooking the sea. suns will set in the east over Dublin bay for me and toss lines off across the water and I'll catch them in my hands and eat them with my fingers. it could work. it could.

I've seen it happen 6

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sometimes. rusty cars starting off on no gas at all. books being printed with granta and taught to 20 year olds in universities. money to live on from the government as reward for keeping old arts well oiled. letters from editors explaining that mr maolalai, we apologise for the rejection which you accidentally received. the reader who sent it out to you has been fired. we hope this will not discourage you from submitting with us again love. something new to write about. important things. love. then again: I just got back to Dublin and what I've seen of my friends tells me I guess that the Irish decay pretty well and that instead I'll get a midlevel office job and a fat and rusted gut at 40 no longer hidden by my white linen shirts. and my neck will fill out. and I'll lose my chin and brittle my arms and tell people sometimes drunk at wooden bars "you know, you know, I used to be a poet" I could live in a nice house with a wife and maybe even some kids. I could drive a car instead of walking everywhere. my ass could get shot. it could happen.

I interview pretty well and look good right now in a suit. it could happen. it would be so very 7

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easy for that to happen.

Chameleon

by Jack T. Canis

It started when I was five years old. Something disturbed me when I was asleep, it took a moment or two to work out where I was, in the gloom of my bedroom. Just the slightest hint of illumination creeping under my door from the landing light. I remembered that the babysitter was downstairs, because my parents had gone out for the

night.

I

think

the

sound

that

had

disturbed

me,

was

of

breaking glass and I then realised I was never going to get back to sleep until I had found out what the babysitter had broken. She was going to be in so much trouble, especially when I told my parents on her. I had gone downstairs to investigate; the door to the sitting room was slightly ajar and there was just enough of a gap for me to look into the room and see precisely what it was she was doing in there. I say this, because as I came down the stairs there had been more noise from the room, muffled scuffling and a dull thump.

Looking through the crack I could see what was happening in the centre of the room. The coffee table lay on its side and I could just make out the shattered remains of a glass of milk spilled to one

side.

The

babysitter

was

lying

on

the

hearth

rug,

which

covered two thirds of the floor and there was a man on top of her.

I had never seen the man before and he seemed to me, especially in 8

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my

memories,

to

be

nothing

more

than

a

dark

shade.

Dressed

entirely in black, he was straddling the babysitter, his left hand pinning her wrists above her head and a long-bladed knife in his right hand, pressed firmly against her throat. She was whimpering like a scolded puppy and writhing under his weight. It was quite pathetic really. I suppose, thinking about it now, as a five-yearold

child

seeing

a

strange

man

in

my

house

attacking

my

babysitter, I should have been frightened. I believe most of you would

have

felt

this,

but

I

didn’t;

generally,

I

don’t

feel

anything. The world of emotions is a closed book to me, it comes to me diluted and dull; a fuzzy sensation of hope and possibility, of interest and pleasure; everything else feels like I’m looking at life through cloudy pond water. Fear I know not, nor guilt, nor love. Or at least it was thus when I was younger. I have had time to learn since then, study you and your emotions, to ape them. I am a chameleon.

No, what I felt upon viewing this traumatic event was interest and excitement. It stimulated and titillated me. There was a trilling sensation in the pit of my stomach, which moved downwards to warm me between my legs, it was an exhilarating sensation and one I have craved for, ever since. I continued to watch as the man cut away her blouse and bra, still pinning her to the rug. She was pleading with him to stop, to not hurt her, to not kill her. He told her to be quiet, in a hushed tone, telling her that he wouldn’t kill her or the boy upstairs if she just let him do what he wanted to do.

It was only at this point that I considered my position in all this. He had threatened me; again, I was not scared by his threat, partly because I was now aware of his potential intent towards me.

I looked behind me, into the hallway in which I stood and saw the corner table where my parents had a key bucket. Sticking out of

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the top of it was my mother’s mobile phone; left for emergencies, the first number on the opening screen would be my father’s phone.

I could go and use it now, either to ring them or to ring the police. But I didn’t want to do that. I had another idea; I wanted to watch, it was making me excited, it was fulfilling a need and desire in me that I had hitherto been unaware of. I wasn’t about to have some random authoritarian figure stumble in and ruin my fun. As to what to do when it had all finished, this had not yet occurred to me, I was too engrossed in the moment.

He had the knife to her neck again. Pressed firmly into the flesh, so that it creased and folded around the edge of the blade. I could see a crimson trickle running in a rivulet down the gorge of that crease, pooling in the hollow caused by her straining tendons and

then

overflowing

to

drip

down

onto

the

white

hearth

rug,

staining it pinkish red. I imagined the warmth of that liquid and had a great and almost overwhelming desire run into the room so that I could lick it. I had to physically brace myself against the jamb to prevent myself impetuously charging in. I continued to watch,

my

gripping

right

myself

hand as

was

the

now

warm

between

my

legs,

clutching

tingling

rush

continued

to

and

build

inside me. The man had now removed the babysitter’s jeans and cut off her panties, he had also had the time to lower his trousers and I watched as he pushed himself between her legs, the knife ever constant on her throat. Then the greatest moment happened for me, she looked away from her attacker as he started to violate her and she looked across the room to the doorway. Our eyes locked in an embrace all of their own. I could see tears in her eyes and some deep-seated emotion I did not recognise, but have been told since then, was most likely fear or terror. Her expression changed as she saw me and a new sense of panic rose in her. She clenched her mouth shut and imperceptibly shook her head at me. Even in this moment of mortal danger she was trying to protect me. If I

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had been another sort of person I would, perhaps, have found this endearing or had some sense of pride that she was still thinking of me as she was being raped by a stranger. Of course, none of these thoughts came to my mind, they are merely ideas that have been presented to me since then, by counsellors and psychiatrists.

It is good to know what a normal person’s response would be to such a situation, it has stood me in good stead since learning it.

I continued to watch, still playing with myself as she closed her eyes and wept at her misery. I revelled in the stranger’s control and

despised

the

babysitter

for

her

weakness.

Clearly,

she

deserved everything that was happening to her because she was weak. I had no idea how long the stranger rutted on top of her for; I could not see the mantel piece from my position, but I could hear the old gold clock, that was a centre piece for it, ticking its slow, ponderous ticks. Time moved slowly in these moments as I drank in the gloriousness of it all. The man grunted heavily after he had rubbed himself against her, before finally removing himself from her. I could see now between her legs; the first most notable thing was the blood that seeped out from the gap between her thighs. I found this odd as I was not aware that he

had

ever

put

the

knife

down

there,

it

was

a

momentary

curiosity, because I was more taken by the blood itself. Like the wound at the neck it pooled in the coarse hair that grew down there, dripping into the white hearth rug and teasing me to come in and drink it. I was broken from my reverie by the movement of the man who had stood up and was pulling up his trousers. He looked down at the babysitter and spat on her.

‘I’ve had better,’ he said with utter contempt in his tone.

I moved away from the door before he could spot me. I made my way quietly to the kitchen; I knew precisely what I was going for and

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what I would do with it when he came out into the hallway. He may have been an adult, but I knew I was superior to him and this would be his downfall. I waited at the kitchen door, prepared for my assault; but he never came out. I waited and waited, but he never came. Towards the end of this time I heard shuffling coming from within the sitting room; so, cautiously, I stalked back to my vantage point. There was a breeze that welcomed me as I came to my resting point. Through the crack in the door I could now see the babysitter

had

gathered

her

shredded

garments

about

her

with

trembling hands, tears pouring down her face. She was kneeling in the pool of blood that had formed from her neck wound. On the other side of the room I could see the veranda door was open. My prey had left by the route he had entered, denying me my prize. I was crestfallen, a great weight of disappointment suddenly took over from the warmth that had nurtured me these last tens of minutes. I was not to be sated.

When my parents returned there were screams from my mother and a great fuss ensued, culminating in a circus of police and forensics swarming over my house. I was awoken by my mother dashing into my room and sweeping me up in her arms. After an initial exchange with the police, she then took me away to my aunt’s house on the other side of town while my father remained at my house to ‘sort everything out’.

The

police

did

eventually

catch

the

rapist

who

broke

in

that

night, he had been on a rampage, according to my father, so it was just a matter of time. Years later when I looked into his case, I had the opportunity of watching his interview tapes. I was unable to interview him personally, despite my profession, because he had been executed long before I qualified. It always brings a smile to my face when I watch the tape where for the first time, he is accused of murdering the babysitter.

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* Hi, my name is Ralph Mackinson, I am a psychiatrist and though I do say it myself, I am pretty good at what I do. It is not because I

can

empathise

with

you

for

all

your

emotional

baggage,

if

anything it is quite the opposite, I have no empathy to speak of at all. I have, however, learned about empathy and emotions. For instance, when one of our training counsellors showed us pictures of faces with a similar expression on them and told us this was terror, I finally knew what it was that people had been showing me over the years just before I slit their throats.

Photograph by Jeffrey Scott Holland

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You Go Your Way

by John Grey It involves Route 95 through Connecticut and numerous unanswered calls on your cell phone.

Your foot on the accelerator has a role to play in it as does the way your hands sweat against the steering wheel rubber and how your knob-twiddling fails to find a radio station to suit your mood.

The scenery doesn’t come into it.

You’re too focused on the way ahead.

And nor does the traffic – other cars mean strangers.

It’s the people you know who fuel your engine as much as what’s in the gas tank.

The speed limit may as well be dead.

Likewise the rules of the road.

You’re in your own world and the laws are set by the venom on your tongue.

You don’t care if you lose control, spin out, crash into the guard rail, roll down an embankment, or slam into the back of a truck.

They’re just versions of not knowing where you’re going, no different from arriving nowhere unscathed.

You’re angry, you feel betrayed, at eighty miles an hour.

Maybe, at ninety, you won’t be.

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Her Best

by John Grey She hears the whispers on the streets, in the commuter trains.

Men are sizing up her body, airing their conclusions.

Lips leer as much as eyes, and tongues slither out as forked as a snake’s.

She figures it’s the sheer waste of a mouth that would be better served by polite conversation.

But maybe the guys are just desperate.

They’ve never been with a woman.

Boorish asides are the extent of their love-lives.

She’s in an elevator with two men.

Their glances try to strike her down, undress her, between the fifth floor and the sixth.

They no doubt believe they’re paying her a tribute.

When she exits, the disgust goes with her.

Even in the office, she’s not safe from unwanted attention.

Belittling chitchat buzzes about her ears.

All she ever does in the morning is try to look her best.

But, in the minds of some, her best does not include all of her.

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Liberty Atoms 6

by Christopher Barnes Cormorant beak-walked an eight yard string, Rebuking tide.

Pratfalling crock – sauce duxelles.

Maisie hassled tufts • Lost wit’s fingers.

Sunset on a rubberstamp: “Everything seemed inevitable”.

Quote: Iris Murdoch, The Nice And The Good

Liberty Atoms 7

by Christopher Barnes Shellac disc Rumpled under needle, jilting an overture’s tingle.

Parakeet erupted, groggy.

Maisie bumped as Styrofoam teemed, Head joggling over night-weary candles – A spoon’s dome attended to.

Reminder on a page: “Don’t worry – it’s not time yet – For me to go”.

Quote: Iris Murdoch, The Nice And The Good

Liberty Atoms 8

by Christopher Barnes Our soot-dim mirror Narrowed the fullness that wasn’t there.

Blankness. Carping resentments.

Maisie’s doll-heads passed up a snigger.

Libra couldn’t be balanced.

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Felt-penned on resin tombstone: “Mother May, being older, Had no clear role”.

Quote: Iris Murdoch, The Nice And The Good

Liberty Atoms 9

by Christopher Barnes Waveband tunesmiths Plunked cadences rearwards To an insubstantial nucleus.

Maisie flounced, blasting a decanter.

No one strong-lined her to polonaise.

Each chorus hoarser.

Rippled on our tarn Silvered words: “I know you are a callous liar”.

Quote: Iris Murdoch, The Nice And The Good

Liberty Atoms 10

by Christopher Barnes Overnight infinity sultried anti-glow, Wizening roses to backbones.

Flesh crept on Maisie’s countenance; Daddy’d promised she’d never be hatched.

Far off, the byre’s pebbles spelled: “Edward had taken hold of her dress”.

Quote: Iris Murdoch, The Nice And The Good

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Flying Is

by J. Randall Brett Flying is walking down the beach With a white knife for a dog.

Flying is having Salt bones For wings.

Flying is standing out in the mudflats Dressed like a bride Expecting kestrels for the groom.

Flying is the wind Scouring the sea wall with sand Until It etches every word Of The Crab Manifesto.

Flying is sunlight Tearing and tattering The surface of the sea.

Flying is an angel Stepping from the waves Shivering the water from her wings Then looking up.

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The First Time

by Holly Day he said I was making him crazy, he said I was too young to be spending so much time at his house, ditching school to watch tv with him, still wearing the old sweat pants he slept in the night before. he said I was too pretty to waste my time hanging out with an old man, that I should try to meet a boy my own age. but I knew those boys would never talk to me.

Injured Orbit

by Mark J. Mitchell This snakebit planet shelters its death— Serene, blithe as a monk in the desert.

The poisons hide but get drawn out of dirt then shared with the air. It drowns in its breath.

Altars offer sacrifice but victims become weapons, blooming dragon’s teeth and the planet watches itself repeat mistakes and, like a blind mother, licks them clean. She sends them out to play in the mess.

This comes of spinning around an unhurt but dying sun and living on fictions— pretty stories creatures will tell with new words each day. Fooled, the planet believes the neat knot of time is tight. But it is not endless.

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A Singular Absence

by Wade Fox When the god descended from the sky and transformed into a man and forgot immortal quiescence when his eyes filled with tears at the mortal pain he let himself die and forget and returned to the sky and the peace of nonexistence

Photograph by Jeffrey Scott Holland

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Rots

by John Tustin The world devolves And everything dies And then everything rots.

The world revolves and evolves As it devolves.

Edgar Allen Poe recites to me Among the dirges I revere That are Playing As I waste my last moments Listening to the dead, Waiting for the living And Sifting through The Ashes While walls are built, Walls are tumbling.

The bridges blow.

The Worms Drown

by John Tustin When it rains so much, so long That the worms, drowning In their soil, squirm out of the dirt To the surface to breathe And then when the rain ends And the morning comes The birds feast upon the ones Seeking, in vain, Purchase in the mud: The “lucky ones” because they were Not fried Directly in the grinning And unmerciful Sun.

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Les yeux par Paul Konstantin Je regardais l’espace. Les couleurs passaient de l’une à l’autre comme sous l’effet d’un rouleau vespéral. Je me prosternais devant l’implacable

vérité

de

ces

couches

visuelles.

C’étaient

des

présences d’une sourde entièreté. Le froid en était à sa fin. Les gouttes

de

la

pluie

printanière

mouillaient

des

tiges

en

effervescence. Les pieds plantés sur le sol, je me figurais comme une girouette submergée par l’espace infini. Je fermais les yeux.

Dans mon crâne le flot de saillies et de plaines étaient prêtes à l’ébullition. Un courant centrifuge sourdait à mes oreilles. Un sifflement

survint.

J’ouvris

les

yeux.

C’était

l’impulsion

de

l’allumette. Les nuages gazeux formaient un souffle allumeur.

Prêt pour le départ, je me laissais prendre par le rouge.

Je partis en avant comme le chat vers son bol de lait. D’un pas cotonneux, j’obliquais autour d’une flamme à la chaleur immense.

Je

frémis

de

crainte,

percevant

la

fusion.

Elle

mettait

mes

cellules en fracas. M’écartant de ce point écarlate, je sentis la douce indolence d’une fin de nuit d’ivresse me prendre. Je suais à grosses gouttes. Mes muscles étaient de larges élastiques de chair tendre. J’ondulais des épaules. Je tournais la tête de droite et de gauche. J’aurais pu percevoir des présences extérieures mais les

ridelles

des

flammes

formaient

comme

une

combinaison

de

spationaute. J’étais tout de sensation tactile avec l’air gazeux qui me chevauchait.

Je souris, sûr du confort présent.

Un écran entra dans ce maelström de flamme, comme une télévision qui avançait. Je vis les chaussées parisiennes, les trottoirs de bitumes entre les immeubles Haussmanniens. Un bâtiment nouveau à la façade de béton, de plastique et de végétaux approchait. Le flot des passants frémissait. C’était presque le printemps. Leur corps rebondissait, habile, leur visage n’était qu’une surface de 22

Datura #7 | 04_2020

peau lisse. Ils n’avaient pas d’yeux pour voir mais se dirigeaient sans

difficultés.

J’entrais

dans

cette

marche

comme

dans

une

parade. Je regardais le ciel. La pluie avait cessé. C’était un bleu d’après-midi. Sa voute en était sereine. J’imaginais le même bleu par delà les immeubles, les faubourgs, les rivières et les montagnes. Je croisais ces corps souples et sans visage. Ils ne semblaient respirer que par les pores. Les épaules montaient et redescendaient

comme

sous

l’effet

d’une

onde

sinusoïdale.

Je

slalomais autour de ces corps. Leurs vêtements aux couleurs vives se découpaient précisément dans l’air bleu, comme des lignes de dessins avec des reflets scintillants.

Mes yeux sortirent.

Je laissais mon corps planté dans le bitume. Les yeux s’envolèrent au

dessus

de

la

colline

urbaine

avec

mon

esprit

comme

accompagnateur. La vitesse me prenait en tunnel. Quelques larmes coulèrent puis tombèrent sur des plaines céréalières. Je filais au milieu

du

bleu,

pris

dans

un

tumulte

de

spirales

et

de

sifflements. Emporté par le mouvement je me grisais alors que la couleur s’embrumait. Des gouttes de gaz oxygénées perturbaient le nerf optique. Je ne voyais plus rien. J’acceptais le gris. Cela aurait

pu

être

du

jaune,

du

vert

ou

du

rose.

Les

fréquences

balançaient du gris vers le blanc. J’étais dans un non-lieu, sans corps et je filais à la vitesse de la lumière. Le souvenir de mes paupières s’écartait sous l’effet de la surprise. Il y eut un moment de fixation. Puis tous les mouvements s’arrêtèrent.

J’étais dans un lieu inconnu. Je me sentais totalement vulnérable.

On aurait pu m’écraser ou me déposer sous une couette tout contre un corps gorgé de chaleur. J’étais là. Je ne pouvais plus rien faire. J’ouvrais la bouche. L’air passait par saccades courtes.

Sur le pont Mirabeau, les voitures freinaient au feu rouge. Je regardais les eaux de la Seine, comme en apesanteur.

23

Datura #7 | 04_2020

COVID 19

by Obilo Ukachukwu

I have been made Standing, but still seated On broken plastic chair Touched by holy hands Of Sweetie COVID 19 My heart lust for anxiety Right before my very presence Without fearing my wheeling wrath Already at its closest doorstep I have been relieved From cool complemented boredom Of worthy naked disguise Itchy and stinkingly sticky In my tent I'm married to the unknown Borne by beautiful pandemic Made from darkened heart All in all My strong consoling tears Shall fight to give me Back my lost freedom again From you, wicked COVID 19

24

Datura #7 | 04_2020

Notre République (extraits) par Léonel Houssam. Editions Burn-Out. C’est poétique un mec mort. 48Ème jour.

La balançoire grince. Son mouvement de balancier est léger, régulier, provoqué par le vent chaud venu du Sud. Morgan paraît serein bien que sa tête soit penchée vers le sol. La rigidité cadavérique tient les mains parfaitement accrochée aux deux cordes bleue. Ce miracle fascine Bertrand, assis sur une chaise en osier à la fenêtre de la cuisine, les bras croisés supportant son menton.

"Faudrait penser à l'enlever de là. T'as fait des photos ?

- Ouais.

- On va les foutre sur internet. Ça va faire le buzz. C'est poétique un mec crevé qui fait de la balançoire. On le décrochera plus tard. Je me dis qu'on pourrait le laisser comme ça. S'il n'y avait pas les vers et les mouches pour lui grignoter la putréfaction, je le laisserais sécher là. Je l'aimais bien Morgan.

C'était un dingue, un bienheureux. La preuve ! Il s'est pris une pêche en plein cœur alors qu'il faisait le con sur là-dessus pendant que ça bastonnait!"

Les échanges de tirs ont cessé depuis près d'une heure. La rue, bien qu'un peu plus grignotée par les combats, a retrouvée sa quiétude habituelle.

"On devrait inventer un gel qu'on répandrait sur les corps là où ils sont morts. Un produit capable de vitrifier instantanément le défunt. On ferait ça pour tout le monde et on serait obligé de détourner les routes, de construire de nouvelles chambres d'hôpital, de nouvelles églises, immeubles... Il y aurait des gens morts sur d'autres gens morts, et des gens morts sur toute la surface de la planète. En quelques décennies, la croûte terrestre serait couverte d'une couche d'humanité morte. Il serait interdit

25

Datura #7 | 04_2020

de modifier leur place, de les toucher après vitrification. Quand on y pense, conserver les trépassés en l'état changerait le monde.

Peut-être qu'enfin ces crétins de consommateurs auraient la nausée. On pourrait écrire la cause de la mort sur un panneau planté sur le ventre ou le thorax ou une cuisse si le type n'a plus de tronc" Il inspire fortement. Relève la tête.

"Je suis un avant-gardiste. Tout ça se fera un jour. Je suis un doux rêveur peut-être…"

C’est pas parce que tu n’es pas classe que tu n’es pas désirable.

51ème jour Pendant que cette grosse dame livide se fait labourer le sein gauche par un chat noir au regard vitreux, Bertrand retire les balles de son arme avant de les remettre dans leurs compartiments de façon presque explicite.

"C'est quoi ton nom ?

- Jacqueline.

- T'as quel âge Jacqueline ?

- On demande pas son âge à une dame quand on est un gentleman.

- Je suis classe avec les femmes classes. Toi c'est pas le cas.

T'as quel âge ?"

Elle ravale une envie de pleurer qui lui exorbite ses prunelles bleues.

"54 ans.

- C'est pas parce que tu es pas classe que t'es pas désirable. Tu sais quoi ? Non tu sais pas. Quand tu survis à deux ou trois

26

Datura #7 | 04_2020

batailles qui canardent bien, tu te sens ultra puissant, ultra invulnérable et surtout tu as des envies de baiser de malade" Elle attrape le chat qu'elle balance aussi loin que possible. Le cri strident de la bête couvre les mots de Jacqueline. Bertrand se lève et la suit tandis qu'elle s'engage rapidement dans le couloir obscur de la maison.

Les chants d'oiseau. Les rires de joueurs de belote. Le grincement de la balançoire portée par le vent chaud soufflé par le sud.

Photograph by Jeffrey Scott Holland

27

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 : 978-0-24416230-6

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: 978-0-244-445027

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 : 978-0-24479269-5

Aux éditions Urtica. Déjà parus Kind Surgery by Matt Dennison The father figure is central to this book and the voice takes you down memory lane, but not in a morose or weak tone. $6 (plus shipping) – 42 pages black & white – ISBN: 978-0-244-53701-2

Forty-Four Image Poems by Norman

Event Horizon by Valentina Cano

J. Olson

Un fémur est un homme pour vous de A Few Bullets Short of Home by A.J. Fabrice Marzuolo

Huffman

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 7 – APRIL 2020 – ISSN : 2646-2257 – LEGAL SUBMISSION (TO BNF) : ON PUBLICATION – SPECIAL PRINTING – MASTHEAD : WALTER RUHLMANN 11 RUE GILBERT SALAMO 11510 FITOU – FRANCE © DATURA & CONTRIBUTORS, APRIL 2020 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°7 – AVRIL 2020 – 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, APRIL 2020 ADRESSES : https://daturaliteraryjournal.blogspot.com/ – mgversion2datura@gmail.com Photocopied : France : €2 – Europe : €4 – World : €8 (shipping included)