Datura Issue 8 July 2020

Datura #8 | 07_20

ACUFF – BARNES – BURZ – DELLI – GREY – HARE – HOUSSAM – POUSSIN – ROBINSON – ROMAN – SEYEDBAGHERI – SHIRES – UKACHUKWU – ULRICH – ZEHMER

Vient de paraître aux éditions Urtica Maintenant disponible éditions Urtica. 10€ (plus frais de port).

Depuis le site de l'imprimeur: https://www.lulu.com/fr/shop/mi cha%C3%ABl-potier/entrailles/pa perback/product-gdkgvj.html Par Paypal ou chèque, contacter urticalitblog@gmail.com.

ISBN: 978-1-71692-296-1-1 Entrailles de Michaël Potier Récit crade Il est de ces livres que l'on ne referme pas indemne, qui laissent un sentiment de nausée dans la gorge, retournent l'estomac. Les émotions nous disent que c'est mal, la raison finit par nous ouvrir les yeux.

Dans le récit Entrailles il est question de viandes, de sexe cru, de pensées nauséabondes, de chair, de fluides corporels qui nous rappellent ce que nous sommes en réalité.

Pages: 74 Reliure: livre à couverture souple Dimensions: A5 (148 x 210 mm) Blog de l’éditeur: urticalitblog.blogspot.com “Sexe réalitriste, mais y'a de l'humour, ça sauve de se jeter sous le métro” Cathy Garcia Revue Nouveaux délits

Extrait: "Je me souviens de cette nuit atroce où des barbares shootés ont pissé sur mon corps alors que j’étais à poil, ils ont entouré ma bite avec du fil barbelé, l’un deux a enfoncé son sexe de bœuf musqué dans ma bouche pleine de salive, ils ont donné des coups de rangers dans mon ventre et dans ma tête hallucinée, je pissais le sang, la gueule scotchée au carrelage froid, les jours suivants je me suis masturbé longtemps en crachant du sang dans les cheveux gris de ma mère.

La nuit dernière je suis allé baiser avec une prostituée belge, j’ai enfoncé ma mâchoire cassée dans ses fesses de Rubens, je bandais comme un babouin, la salope avait ses règles, j’ai baisé son sang noir en crachant dans sa gueule de femme triste, j’ai mordu dans sa gorge comme un vampire maladroit, des morceaux de sa peau collés à mes dents jaunes et la lumière glaciale du matin a éclaboussé nos corps de bêtes lubriques.”

Michaël Potier, Entrailles

Contents | Sommaire Cover illustration | Illustration de couverture: Pascal Ulrich •

Docteur Burz: editorial

•

Heather Robinson: The Jacket Note (fiction)

•

Sloom Delli: La carroteuse de la gare Saint-Charles et La honte (slam)

•

Madison Zehmer: Terminal bud and summertime sadness (poetry)

•

Robert Roman: Monologues abstraits (prose), illustrations de Pascal Ulrich

•

Obilo Ukachukwu: Smiling in the Tomb and My Facebook Lover (poety)

•

Christopher Barnes reviews The Life And Times Of Fishgate Billyboy by Fishgate Billyboy.

•

Clarice Hare: Un lobo de ojos verdes, (d)uomo, and To Pass Through the Fire (poetry)

•

John Grey: Living Next Door to a Fire-God and Mississippi (poetry)

•

Jaimen Shires: Apples and Potatoes, an excerpt from the novel Vote Bob (fiction)

•

Yash Seyedbagheri: A Prelude (poetry)

•

Fabrice Poussin: If Only They Believed (poetry)

•

Gale Acuff: New Math (poetry)

•

Léonel Houssam: un extrait de Notre République (roman)

Datura #8 | 07_2020

Editorial Les gestes derrière Par le octeur Burz déjà publié le 18 juin 2020 sur ledocteurburz.wordpress.com 7 semaines de faux discours de gauche pendant le confinement.

7 semaines… et à sa dernière allocution de Môsieur 1er du nom, qu’est-ce qu’on apprend, hum?

Rien.

Rien qu’on ne sache déjà, rien qui puisse nous donner envie de voter, rien qui fasse avancer la fausse démocratie. Rien.

2 mois de calme et de tranquillité pour le monde et la Terre.

2 mois sans bagnoles, sans avions, sans pollution, sans bruit humain.

2 mois sans chanson de merde criée par un smartphone dans la rue, sans cyclistes Tourdefrancisés sur la route, 2 mois sans sport putain !

Un temps de dingue pour réfléchir, pour envisager l’avenir, pour se poser les bonnes questions sur la suite de nos démarches (elle est vite répondue comme dirait JP), avec des preuves à l’appui chaque jour du bienfait de l’arrêt de nos activités sur la planète.

Et qu’est-ce qu’on fait ? On rempile sur notre mode de production à 300 % pour rattraper les retards de pollution, on oblige les gens à consommer l’épargne qu’ils ont accumulée, on leur conseille d’encore plus acheter pour faire redémarrer l’économie mortifère.

3 mois de travail intensif dans des conditions exécrables pour les soignants déjà bien fracassés par plusieurs années de casse budgétaire et sociale.

Des applaudissements de balcon politique fantoche pour en faire des héros du quotidien en deuil de capitalisme, alors qu’eux ne voulaient que du matos et un meilleur salaire. Des promesses pendant 7 semaines… et quoi à l’arrivé ? Rien. Ah si ! Une sortie en masse pour manifester contre les mensonges et des gaz lacrymo pour avance sur salaire.

Les gestes derrière.

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Datura #8 | 07_2020

* Voilà. On a eu les éléments pour attester de notre suffisance pleine et entière de la nocivité que nous pouvions exercer sur notre monde, et nous n’en retirerons aucun enseignement capable de faire pencher la balance.

La plus grande marche arrière de tout les temps d’officier. Plus les preuves s’accumulent plus nous dans un irrémédiable nihilisme sociétal. On ira chier les réalistes en les traitant de pessimistes que ce sont nos dirigeants qui fomentent le plus planétaire de notre temps.

est en train nous enfonçons ensuite faire latents, alors grand génocide

Si les mouvements sociaux se font plus hard dans la rue, c’est de leur faute.

Si les violences policières sont en roue libre, c’est de leur faute.

Si les gens crèvent la dalle dans l’indifférence et le mépris le plus total, c’est de leur faute.

Si les produits que nous achetons sont farcis de merde et de pesticides, c’est de leur faute.

Si l’eau du robinet n’est plus que faussement potable car on évite d’aller trop loin dans les analyses, c’est de leur faute.

Si l’agriculture bio sera bientôt irréversiblement impossible pour pollution intense, c’est de leur faute.

Si on leur crève les yeux ils arriveront encore à nous forcer à aller voter pour eux.

Les gestes derrière. * Les plus gros enfumages politiques des dernières années sont ceux qui ont broyé les codes avec le ni ni. Pourtant c’était simple, ni de la merde ni du caca, juste un fleuve d’étrons. Plus on nous demande d’honorer notre devoir civique et républicain, plus c’est pour cautionner de la bouse intersidérale. Et on s’étonnera du niveau grandissant d’abstention. A un moment l’arbre ne peux plus cacher la forêt.

Notre système est-il arrivé au bout de ce qu’il pouvait produire comme pires saloperies ? Je ne crois pas, il lui reste encore une marge de taré dans un espace où tout est profondément condamné 3

Datura #8 | 07_2020

pour toujours. Alors perdu pour perdu on peut en faire des kilomètres de chieries intergalactiques. Pour ça c’est simple, il suffit de continuer à engraisser notre démocratie totalitaire en étant civiquement convaincu que leur donner la puissance électrice est LA solution.

Je vous souhaite que le système s’écroule, lui et toutes les moules accrochées au gros rocher goudronné. Oui tu peux crier, oui tu peux y croire encore, c’est un droit. Oui tu peux te bouger les fesses, oui tu peux rester digne et combattre l’occultisme néolibéral. Oui tu peux avoir envie de rester debout, oui tu peux battre le pavé. Oui tu peux vouloir un monde meilleur, oui tu peux agir pour le concevoir. Oui tu peux remuer ciel et terre pour embellir la vie, oui tu peux embrigader de bonnes âmes pour le modifier. Mais quoi que tu fasses, c’est trop tard.

Le libéralisme excessif a produit un éternel oubli des choses essentielles et primordiales. Il a fabriqué et conçu un effacement générationnel de l’histoire et ses conséquences, une canopée sans base où il n’y a que des premiers de cordé. Bien mal acquis ne profite jamais ? Ben pour eux si, mais pas éternellement hein, vu qu’ils pillent le monde ils seront aussi à court un jour. Mais ça n’a pas l’air de beaucoup les émotionner, c’est un peu ça qui est dérangeant.

Les gestes derrière. * Les gestes derrière, ce sont les fausses promesses, les campagnes de manipulation, les enguirlandages en règle, le caressage de poil dans le sens du populisme, et toutes les croyances qu’on érigeait en gloire sans les remettre en cause.

De la grosse daube qui revient en force quoi.

Courage. * Amen (les promesses), Touti Quanti (les mensonges), et Tralala (l’avenir)… * ©Le Docteur vous parle de vous à vous.

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Datura #8 | 07_2020

The Jacket Note

By Heather Robinson

The jacket belonged to someone else before it belonged to me.

My foster mom, Janelle, took me to the Goodwill in the next town, where the people are rich, and so the stuff they get is better. I saw the lady coming out of the backroom with a few things and eyed it. It was mint like it had hardly been worn and pretty hip – a dark grey puff jacket. I almost grabbed it out of the lady’s hands. When I looked at the label it was a Patagonia for $25! Jackpot! Janelle washed it when we got home. She said they don’t wash the clothes before they sell them. I could hear the old tennis balls bouncing around in the dryer making it puff out again. I wore it on Monday and was waiting for the bus when I felt it – something crinkly like stiff paper. I delved around in the jacket and found a small secret zipped pocket. Inside there was a folded piece of paper, not usual, but kind of light blue linen shit. It was really hard to open it because the washing had made it like paper mache. But the writing on it was pretty clear and easy to read. It read: “Mom, Dad, Brian, Finley (woof!), I’m so sorry, but life’s a sham and a scam and I can’t do it anymore.

I don’t want a Porsche and a hedge fund job and a Vassar girl and I don’t see how I’m getting out of that. No amount of CBT and Lexapro is going to fix me, so I’m going to fix myself. Love, Jason.”

So I stood there kind of knocked off my feet. I wanted to pull that jacket right off and throw it away, but it was freezing. I stuffed the note back in the pocket and got on the bus. My friend, Joey, gave me a high five and pointed to the jacket.

“Nice!”

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Datura #8 | 07_2020

“Thanks,” I said. I didn’t tell him about the note or where I got the jacket. I was glad to get to school and put that damn jacket into my locker. I know you’re thinking. Why didn’t I just throw away the note and then the jacket might not be so creepy to put on? But I just couldn’t. The whole day was a loss. I had a test in geometry and completely fucked up. I couldn’t get my mind off the note. By the end of the day it had warmed up enough so I just

left

the

jacket

in

my

locker

and

went

home.

Of

course,

Janelle saw me come in without it.

“Where’s your jacket? Don’t tell me you already gave it to someone?” she yelled. She’s right, sometimes I have a habit of doing that.

“Nah,” I said. “Just forgot it.”

“It’s October, you need to wear it.”

I nodded because I knew she was right. Plus she works really hard cleaning offices at night so she’d be rightly pissed if I got rid of something like that.

I went up to my room and listened to Kid Cudi for a while.

Then my curiosity started up again, so I went into Google and typed in Jason and Death and Bankside, which is the town the Goodwill was in. His obituary came up. It was just 3 weeks old. He was 16. They didn’t say how he died, but it asked for donations to NAMI, which is some mental health place. It even mentioned that he would be missed by Finley, his golden retriever. I’ve never had a dog, but if I did and he was really my dog, I would never kill myself while he was alive. That would just be cruel. I kind of get the other stuff.

The next day I really regretted having left the jacket at school because it was 34 degrees outside. This time when I got on the bus, Joey just started laughing hysterically at me for wearing

6

Datura #8 | 07_2020

only a sweater, so I decided to tell him about the jacket. At first he didn’t believe me, but I promised I’d show him the note when we got to school.

“OK, I guess I wouldn’t want to wear that jacket either,” he said.

“What should I do with the note?”

“Beats me.”

“But what if Jason didn’t leave a note, and he figured his parents would find that note when they started cleaning out his stuff?”

“Did they even care about him? They didn’t waste any time wiping him from their memory. Three weeks?”

“I guess,” I said. “I’m also thinking it puts the blame on them. Like they’re the reason he did it, they made him crazy with their expectations.”

Joey seemed to be thinking about it, then he said “But they got him meds, right? I think Lexapro is for depression.”

“Is CBT that weed oil?”’

“They don’t seem like the type of people who’d give their son pot.”

So I googled that and it’s some kind of thing psychologists do to get their patients to change their behavior. Well, it didn’t work. Neither the Lexapro nor the CBT. But they tried.

Then I’m thinking more about the jacket. They got rid of it really quick, like maybe seeing it in the closet every day was too much for them. And maybe Finley was always sniffing at it and barking. Finley knew something was wrong. I would get rid of it too.

As we were getting off the bus, Joey said “If you send the

parents

that

note,

they’re

going

to

feel

worse

about

it.

And

besides, I bet it was just a practice note and he left the real note where they would find it.” So that was that.

7

Datura #8 | 07_2020

I wore the jacket all October, and the more I wore it, the more it became comfortable, even with the note in it. And I was glad

that

Jason’s

family

had

donated

it

so

I

could

be

warm.

Sometimes I would even talk to Jason in my mind, like if I saw a golden retriever, which is rare in by neighborhood, I would say, “Hey, Jason, is that Finley?” And Jason would laugh and say “You nuts? That dog has no nuts.” And he’d be right cuz I’d hear the owner say, “I haven’t got all day, Margie.” Or, if I saw a nice yellow Porsche blazing down the road, I’d joke with him, saying, “I don’t know why you didn’t want a Porsche, Jason. Those are fine wheels.” And he’d say back, “Yeah, good point. But yellow is for pussies. No yellow Porsches at my house.”

Sometimes I even reached out to him for advice, believe it or not. We got a new writing teacher cuz Mr. Fitzgerald had to take care of his wife, who has MS. So in comes this Sharon Michaels, and I don’t know what happened but I got all weird and nervous every

time

I

went

into

that

class.

She

looked

like

Kerry

Washington, but she was warm and caring, not like on Scandal. When she called on me I just turned red and couldn’t get my thoughts together. The other kids would snicker, but she never did. Anyway, so one day after a really bad day, I asked Jason what I should do about my crush on Miss Michaels. This time, he must have been in a bad mood, cuz all he said was, “I can’t give you advice on love, talk to someone with experience.” It was odd. He always talked to me and so I must have said something wrong. Anyway, I didn’t bother him for a while. Then one day I was listening to Kendrick and

all

of

a

sudden

it

just

seemed

as

if

it

was

Jason,

not

Kendrick, singing it, and I started singing too, as if we were in the same band rapping together. And Jason came back to me then and we just continued to talk about everything – school, TV shows, music, fishing (we both liked to fish), girls, celebs, you name it. I think that damn kid helped me get through 9 th grade. I even

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Datura #8 | 07_2020

felt closer to him than Joey, who was now kinda running with a tough crowd.

In the summer between 9th and 10th grade I got a job at the beach’s concession stand, and I made some friends there. We were a crazy crew and the boss was tough but fair. Plus I had as many burgers and fries as I wanted. I even met a girl there, Hannah.

She made a mean chocolate milk shake and she always flirted with the customers which helped us all cuz we split the tips. Sometimes right after she’d said something to a male customer, like, “Nice tatt!,” she’d turn around to make the shake and she’d wink at me, like we were plotting stuff together.

So when we went into 10th grade, I was feeling better about myself. I had a girlfriend (yup, Hannah) and I had made money so I bought some better clothes at Kohl’s, not at Goodwill. But I still loved that jacket. I also had a new writing teacher, Mr. Dobosz, which was good because I was still embarrassed about my crush on Ms. Michaels.

On September 15, we had our football opener with Bankside.

We’re in the same league. They have an amazing football field, with clean bleachers, a concession stand, and get this; a DJ guy from their own high school radio station that does the play-byplay.

Joey was a tight end and Hannah and I went to cheer him on. It was cold so I had my jacket on. We were winning 7-3 when I noticed a lady on the other side kind of staring at me. I didn’t recognize her so I ignored it. At that point Bankside was facing a 4 th down and this kid caught a pass like he could fly through the air, and damn if he didn’t get a touchdown. The announcer said, “A sic touchdown

by

number

12,

Brian

Logan!”

9

I

recognized

the

name,

Datura #8 | 07_2020

looked over at the staring woman and saw a golden retriever beside her.

They got the conversion too and then Hannah said to me, “Well, that sucks. Brrr, it’s cold.” And I told her I’d go get her a hot chocolate at the concession stand, and I did. I had the two cups and when I turned around, there was that lady, and she had tears in her eyes, and she grabbed my arm. “My son had this jacket… he…” and she just broke down. And I just said, “I knew your son,” and I put my arms around her hoping I didn’t spill the hot chocolate down her navy wool coat. We just stood there for a while. No one bothered us. She didn’t ask anything more, and neither did I. When she left, she petted the sleeve of the jacket, like she had done it many times before. It never occurred to me to show her the note, I’d pretty much forgotten it was still there. I wanted to tell her how much her son had helped me, but she’d just think I was nuts, so I left it there.

As I walked back to Hannah, my hands started shaking like crazy. Adrenalin, I guess. So, I’m handing her the cup and she says, “Whoa! I’m the shake maker on this team! Geez!,” and she grabbed the cocoa before I spilled it all over her. “Sorry,” I said.

She took a sip, then looked at me curiously. “Why’d you hug that

lady?

I’m

pretty

sure

no

PDAs

allowed

with

moms

of

the

opposing team.”

I didn’t know what to say, but she was looking at me. I wasn’t even watching the game then. I finally looked straight into her eyes. “Have you ever talked with someone who wasn’t alive?” I asked. She nodded and smiled.

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Datura #8 | 07_2020

“My grandpa George. That old fart. He still tells me the same dirty jokes, and I laugh and laugh. People must think I’m insane.

What about you?” she asked.

Then I told her the whole story about the jacket, and about Jason, and our talks; every detail. And she really listened, not in a judging way. So we shared our secrets, and they were the same. Sometimes when we’re together she’ll just start laughing out of the blue, and I’ll say, “tell me” and she tells me the joke.

We’ll both giggle even though they’re usually pretty stupid. Other times, we’ll see a golden retriever and she’ll yell “I haven’t got all day, Margie!” and people stare at us. Jason said he didn’t know anything about love, but I think he taught me a lot. Maybe it’s just about telling someone something you didn’t know you could.

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Datura #8 | 07_2020

La carotteuse de la gare Saint-Charles De Sloom Delli arrivée saint-charles le cis me raconte : « hé ! hé vas-y j'suis pressé là va falloir faire vite » en deuspi s'la dépêcher « vite vite » même pas l'temps d'une pisse apparemment c'était parce qu'il avait un train à prendre ou alors c'était parce qu'il avait un train d'retard ou encore c'était parce qu'il avait un ticket avec une escorte de coco en gros le cis il voulait m'la faire en 2-2 rapide – de toi à moi en mode speed j'sais pas pour toi cis mais avec moi la sis y'a pas à douter : question bons sentiments toussa toussa j'suis pas du genre pressé non pas pressée cister mais du genre intersexe qu'est jamais à l'heure alors me presse pas me presse jamais ni pour 1 flouz ni pour 1 lové ok ? j'suis pas encore miss TGV qui tétonne en 1ère mais rembourée comme la 2eme dauphine de miss TER et comme ça comme on dirait l'train-train habituel 12

Datura #8 | 07_2020

j'demande à voir la friandise normal j'demande à voir la friandise mais… elle lui vient pas avec les doigts la friand' d'abord fallait que j'lui file le billet comme si il voulait acheter ma thune avec son shit merde ! j'ai rien compris c'était moi l'charbon ou lui l'bousier pour un bout le cis il allait m'rouler alors comme c'étaient mes derniers e sous cello et avant d'lui refiler l'ficello j'ai essayé un dernier truc un truc vendeur une petite transtextualité de mauvaise revendeuse : « hé ! c'est d'la bonne c'est d'la bonne thune j'te dis c'est du bon fric c'est d'la frappe c'est d'la patate à fric » et sous mes airs de fritures et d'Amours Jaunes...c'était vendu ! ah ça non c'était pas d'l'afghane il a ouvert sa main elle était là la friandise entre ses oids : ça touchait pas 10 pour 1/2 carambar sans la blague

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Datura #8 | 07_2020

La honte De Sloom Delli sous les yeux du chauffeur sous les yeux du 583 – arrêt Lieutenant Moulin fin de ligne sous les yeux de So sous les yeux de tous mes kho places au fond assises à la ligne sous tes yeux mam sous les yeux de Notre-Mam la bonne mère sous les yeux d'If sous les yeux captifs – et peut-être même de toute la ville en perm' tous ces yeux rivés sur moi tous ces yeux comme si j'étais la seule à me voir en face – face à l'épreuve mythique de la honte je me suis relevée j'allais renaître !

Rebirth by NYC DOT from flickr.com

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Datura #8 | 07_2020

Terminal bud

By Madison Zehmer

Boneroots protrude from muddy ground.

I want to bury them.

The skylights dance. No coffins for sinners.

Nothing for me but the color of rain and the sea, always drowning something or someone.

I never had a death wish only something close to it; moldfeathers grow on my ankles, anchor me to a ground sick and suffocating. The sky weaves amber out of smoke and the corpses sing an aubade.

I forget what roses smell like.

My lungs cannot flip the switch; nothing for me but the taste of plumdirt and wishbones.

summertime sadness (a golden shovel)

By Madison Zehmer

what makes us holy makes us raw / your kiss as lullaby or leaf fever / let me see ghosts in the sink / in the shower / hard liquor turning tongues into glass / before the rain stops / and it will / see what else you have forgotten / like sin taste / as I go sit under the weeping sun / summertime sickness in misty breath / sacred sadness /

15

Datura #8 | 07_2020

Monologues abstraits De Robert Roman déjà paru aux éditions du Contentieux en novembre 2000 sous le titre: Fins de journées - Monologues abstraits Illustrations de Pascal Ulrich

I Un ciel jaune transpire toutes les gouttes de son plafond céleste. Le tableau qu’il propose invite les chats du voisinage à stopper leur progression. Je m’inscris en fou et tremble, lucide, devant tant de luminosité. Mon regard interne perçoit les derniers changements. Comment résister à cette fin du monde provisoire, à cette

apocalypse

immobile ?

Hululer

le

long

des

lignes

téléphoniques peut être une solution de rechange quand le sol s’imbibe d’empreintes de souris. Ici, on flaire le poil mouillé, les

sourires

lenteurs

aquatiques,

ovipares…

Des

les

déplacements

mouvements

de

crapauds,

les

désordonnés

indiquent

une

attraction inhabituelle. Les Nocturnes s’appliquent à voleter au16

Datura #8 | 07_2020

dessus des bandes blanches, là où l’asphalte délimite les parcours essentiels. Le soleil couchant s’incline un peu plus et l’orange foncé paraît, conviant les ténèbres. Alors, avoir un ciel pour soi.

Le

garder

dans

sa

paume.

L’appliquer

sur

une

feuille

de

papier. Imaginer une encre atmosphérique. Celle qui retranscrit la nuit, dilue l’hirondelle et signe son humanité.

II Je m’écroule en cascade. Mes os rebouncent sur un fond sonore d’onomatopées utopiques. Au bord de la margelle, l’idée de la chute est conforme au réel. Au creux du puits de la fantaisie, les esprits s’échauffent. On craint le pire. Pourtant, je reste le même.

Fidèle

L’accident

à

était

l’invisible ; factice.

Le

amoureux cri

transi

surfait.

de

l’imaginaire.

J’apprends

par

un

étranger que mon squelette est creux. Je lui fais immédiatement un procès. Les perceuses de la moelle épinière seront mes témoins.

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Datura #8 | 07_2020

Que

jaillisse

la

vérité !

Sur

la

terrasse

sud,

les

jurés

patientent, un verre de ponch dans chaque main. Ils sourient comme de bons citoyens et me donnent envie de cracher mon repas. Après tout, mes chutes ne regardent que moi. Elles me sont vitales comme l’est le sifflet au gendarme. Je nomme Gaston Chaissac et son embolie pulmonaire qui l’a sauvé du tangible. Il réside maintenant au paradis des épluchures. Ses lettres sont comme des papillons qui s’échappent de la bouche des moribonds. Mais au règne du facsimilé,

les

collectionneurs

dépérissent

faute

de

véritables

manuscrits et eux aussi, s’écroulent en cascade.

III Succulents sont mes rêves qui s’alignent sur ma crête. Je tends mon cou famélique et les ligaments résistent bien. Au loin, un camion déverse son gravier. Il fait un bruit ininterrompu de kaléidoscope géant, cet appareil ludique que l’on tourne entre ses 18

Datura #8 | 07_2020

doigts,

face

à

la

lumière.

Je

m’aime

un

peu,

beaucoup

et

je

respire ma poule, juste là, sous les aisselles. Un nouveau nid se présente

à

moi.

Mes

narines

caressent

ce

duvet

clair.

J’en

éternuerais presque de bien-être. Cela ferait comme un cocorico court et mouillé. Ponctuer le tout par un dessin à l’encre noire : un poulpe méta- physique aux ergots pas naturels ; une idée du futur. J’empile des sous-tasses de matière grise dans mon cerveaupercolateur. Cette nuit, un Elvis blond de 1956 chantera pour moi en balayant les déchets du port en noir et blanc. Il remuera les jambes comme avant et me donnera envie, encore, de sourire au passé.

Ma

crête

est

d’or.

Elle

scintille

sous

le

soleil

de

l’occident. Une tentative d’orage charge la lumière. Le jardin semble douloureux. Tous mes rêves me reviennent ensemble, en même temps : le château sous l’eau, le vieil homme aux yeux bleus qui tue par la peur, la mer sous le préau du collège. L’image se fonce, s’obscurcit. Je patine sur les dalles. Trois cyprès de Leyland, inutiles.

un Le

peu

penchés

noir

et

le

du

côté

blanc

gauche, se

saluent

rejoignent.

mes

exploits

L’ensemble

se

confuse, s’irrémédiable et s’englouppe. Je cherche en vain un fil invisible entre deux parasols. Pas d’étourneaux suspendus. Juste quelques piafs en faction dans la vigne vierge. Une paix abrupte s’abat sur mes paupières. Je ferme les yeux et choisis de me retrouver demain.

19

Datura #8 | 07_2020

IV Voilà cinquante-neuf ans que cela dure. Le soir, je disparais.

Le matin, je renais. Et je m’étonne de respirer encore, de trouver la force de couper ces poils qui s’exhibent hors de mes pores. Un fatras silencieux m’accompagne. Ce ne sont que papiers blancs, enveloppes kraft, cachets de cire et encre noire. Les mots sont toujours

les

mêmes :

ciel

ouvert,

chiendent

amical,

mousse

dévastatrice… Je change seulement le sens en cours de route et me retrouve au point de départ : voilà cinquante-neuf ans que cela dure. Le soir, je disparais. Cent démangeaisons m’obligent à me gratter. Mes ongles miment un générique. Celui que personne ne regarde jamais. Parce que trop intime. Trop personnel. Mon cinéma est exquis. Je perçois les mouvements de caméra. Quelqu’un a dit : « Moteur ! » Je

répète les

mots. Je

répète le

texte. Pour

la

réplique, nul n’est admis. Que ce soit un rêve ou la réalité, la psychose est la même. Un univers se déploie… Je parcours la nef en volant et je crie que je suis le mal. Je sais que c’est faux, pourtant les nonnes relèvent leur robe quand je passe devant le 20

Datura #8 | 07_2020

banc

de

bois

qui

leur

sert

de

prothèse.

Quelqu’un

a

dit :

« Coupez ! » Mais les projecteurs restent allumés. Il suffit alors d’une expression parfaitement bien choisie pour rejouer la scène.

Voilà cinquante-neuf ans que cela dure. Le soir, je disparais…

FIN Novembre 2000/avril 2020

21

Datura #8 | 07_2020

Smiling in the Tomb

By Obilo Ukachukwu Smiling in the tomb In associated distress Uneasy sensation occasioned honourably By lack of food As fans' favourable favour Cause we are happy Smiling in the tomb We caption our best photos With our intestines dancing In the comfortable desert Smiling in the tomb In harmless thorns This hidden sickness hides us now Beautifying our rosy eyes To stir at the beautiful ceilings Steady in our rooms On the plater of sham gold We are chastised with scorpions And whips of caring hunger Held very high as the least Lines of our alarming songs Smiling in the tomb

22

Datura #8 | 07_2020

My Facebook Lover

By Obilo Ukachukwu Walked into wonders I settle in Mark Zuckerberg's humble abode A castle made not In the breathing air Right here I found a lively grail Not of ages ago Through the notification window In friend request room To set free The golden assurance Which mothers the fountain That has ordained us now Same here Like the rolling spotless waters We are Johnny Good Fellows Stronger than umbilical cord To taste righteousness endlessly ever As we murdered dubious doubts completely

23

Datura #8 | 07_2020

Yesterday It Rained Christopher Barnes reviews "The Life And Times Of Billyboy" by Fishgate Billyboy.

Arlecchino Press 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh, EH36HN, Scotland, UK. (ÂŁ12)

Fishgate

This is a fictionalised autobiography of a poet, publisher and essayist.

It begins in a tight novelistic manner directly addressing the reader, laying out parameters in language not shy of style: "Like the light from a star, we see everything as it was in the past, though that might be just a tenth of a second ago."

We orientate as we might with place, people and a dog named Gyp. The tenuousness of family is a recurrent theme. Mother and father only being around for the first few years - he part of the war dead, she losing custody during a breakdown.

Prose is punctuated with poems written on events mentioned in the prose.

This slows down the pace of the narrative, increasing the sense of sections.

Soon comes wrestling with homosexual feelings (as they were called in those days) at boarding school.

A candid, not quite innocent half-awakening that this might be a way to find pleasure through life.

The tide moved backwards too, a new awakening proving necessary later.

Wrestling is not just a metaphor.

Interestingly D.H. Lawrence's homoerotic wrestling scene in "Women In Love": "They stopped, they discussed methods, they practised grips and throws, they became accustomed to each other, to each other's rhythm, they got a kind of mutual understanding..." is overturned in one passage by Fishgate Billyboy unexpected change of sex, in the heterosexual arena:

with

"She looked at me appraisingly, then said with a somewhat ironic smile, "Probably. However, there's only one way to find out."

"You mean armwrestling?" I asked. "No, no." she replied, "Real wrestling; over there on the couch."

24

an

Datura #8 | 07_2020

Both use rhythm in punctuation that one might say mimics movements in wrestling.

Pauses feel like weighing-up time, a space to consider the next attack, or the gaps between possible embarrassment and thoughtless action.

Fishgate Billyboy - a name hooked from a dream - encourages us to be conscious that the act of writing creates a shield.

Every character, including the author is a persona. In real life there is more than one "us", so too in literature. Masks maketh the man; persona begets mysteries.

The escapades of a young drifter might seem romantic but clearly not as they were really experienced.

Rootlessness is being alone, meeting people who will soon be out of one's life.

Without family ties there's no home to escape from, or go to.

"Meanwhile, there was the much more immediate problem of the utter boredom of working for a living to deal with. Very soon, I'd take my fate into my own hands and become a proper vagabond."

Sex scenes in this account are well-written and vividly remembered, including feelings that went with the acts.

Descriptions are so acute that they could have happened yesterday.

While addressing the seduction of a friend called Stephen, we have: "I lay awake next to him for a while, listening to his regular breathing.

I had an overwhelming desire to explore his body and began to undo his buttons and my my hand underneath his pyjama top.

I started to run my fingers over his hard corrugated stomach and firm muscular chest..."

Pleasure and shame evolve into freedom versus restraint.

This takes time to adjust to. Some relationships, as is his next one, present as traps, behaviours of control.

Liberation is a battle of wills, "I was still a bum, but this time a completely unrealistic dreamer to boot, and, since he had made the attack in the morning, I went to work with his words ringing in my ears..."

A partner's own esteem issues are sometimes deflected by passing the buck.

This relationship goes polyamorist, a radical life 25

Datura #8 | 07_2020

choice that in the early 1960s probably only gay men were aware of.

I suspect it only works with the absence of love.

No one cries in this affair. The availability of work in the 60s allowed for freedom not to worry about leaving a job (or being sacked).

The availability of sex off the ration book allowed for the freedom not to worry about leaving a lover.

Fishgate was young and pretty in swinging London, making the most of those unbuttoned times.

An obsession with the size and strength of bodies doesn't diminish: "Big hands and wrists, beefy forearms and thick, solid upper arms" despite people and relationships becoming deeper and more complex as time moves on. This obsession awakens at school and carries on into adulthood.

It makes one think that there are no stages.

The first homosexual feelings are the same as the last. Though in terms of expressing where the lust comes from, it seems quite effective.

Meeting lots of people has an intensity about it at certain periods, especially well-read, thoughtful people.

The excitement of ideas and culture coming into the melting pot made life a lot richer for Billyboy.

Poetry was something to read, something to think about, something to write.

Eventually, real circumstances are given artistry and formularised into poems. A record of what Billyboy made of important events, including the feelings they evoked are made into literature.

Time on the dole was time for writing, time to consider what can be learned by reading poetry and adapted to Billyboy's own practice. This pushes a change in style from: "We think about the Fifties from the point of view of History." to...

"His arms criss-crossed weaver-worked whickered frame."

The 1970s was a time much more political than the decade before.

The coup in Chile and the miners' strike had a significant impact.

This was a time to take sides, and he did.

26

Datura #8 | 07_2020

In politics the lack of realism in radical orthodoxy is sharply remembered: (Iran) "was a real revolution, I said to myself.

It seemed that anything could have happened."

But one needs to: "recognise that Chaos-Theory is more appropriate than Dialectics when dealing with them."

Wit is one way of coping with emotionally healthy than despair.

disappointments,

far

more

Humour in this tract can be very dry, take for example what Fishgate says about his long-term friend, Ian Robertson: "Ian Robertson had also been deceived by (a 50 year old Spanish man with a long grey beard called Jorge), believing "Ngorge" to be this 19 year old Kenyan," when it was actually a prank, Jorge's pretending to be Ngorge. is followed by:

It

"Ian Robertson died of a heart attack, though I don't think there was any connection."

Such gags add to the credibility of the character/author. This is what we really would say. To smirk at death is better than to be overwhelmed by it.

Responses to life which require action are often paused by Fishgate.

Romance and sex can cause hesitation, sometimes for considerable periods and even a house fire produces, "What do we do now?"

This is redolent of that traditional view of a poet where the lack of having both feet on the ground is pronounced. Taking time to think may be what "we" do now.

What we might have once thought about a situation can change over time, in one chapter we have, 27

Datura #8 | 07_2020

"When I think about it, his reaction seems to me now to be much more complicated than a simple gaystraight reaction, because class had entered into the equation."

Personal preoccupations can mis-colour our view of people and reality.

There are other re-evaluations that show the wisdom of age leads to less surety not more as we might expect. The meaning of details to the mind of the individual deepens, or widens.

"There is 'Linear-Time,' 'Cyclical-Time' and there is 'Story-Time."

Time for a reader of the poems and of this autobiographical prose is neither quick, slow, nor linear.

We read literature in some passages at a pace. At others we linger, but after reading we may still be with the work, and the work with us. There is something special about the process of reading that does distort time. This gets well-wrought given that the episodes in this book are mostly sequential but sometimes turn backwards or forwards, "I loved climbing the trees. It gave me a sense of myself as an independent being. (Later, I'd become quite a good gymnast.)"

Only by writing stabilised.

in

the

third

person

could

time

actually

be

What I enjoyed most about this book is how clearly the shifting currents of time-specific attitudes to events are marked.

As someone who also lived through some of these, remembering how it felt without revising what it may mean now, brings history back closely.

It is more than nostalgia, it is a true record.

How other people live is often of interest, a contrast to one's own decisions and opportunities. The life in these pages is certainly engaging.

28

Datura #8 | 07_2020

Un lobo de ojos verdes

By Clarice Hare You do you, okay? As for me, I think I’ll let caution fly like the carriage-horse scarf from my straw hat as we motored across the cloud-mirror laguna— go over, sit down, drink mezcal with him, and ask him about his sage eyes. Lupine, do they look, their weird hue luminous—intent— from the shadow of his leather brim? The better to… but you don’t want to hear it.

Had we dicks, we’d dip them in ink, write his stolen tale of blood-stained jefes, juntas, teenage whores and wrestled anacondas, and win a pert pair of Pulitzers. As it is, I guess I’ll let him write it on the underside of my heart with his.

You can be my beta reader, as always.

29

Datura #8 | 07_2020

(d)uomo

By Clarice Hare I don’t need words to know the thunder in my ears is your drum beating. There’s a bloodrose in your bathroom mirrors that’s running down my face, spreading and dissolving. A ruby pendant with a broken clutch of red eggs where it spatters on the marble. The medallioned landscapes, cut for faucets and outlets, are shifting in the infinite crystal planes and my melusine eyes are drowning in polluted lagoons of glass. I turn the filigreed rapier key and take in the vast space around me: siren-tail, lion-foot grotteschi frolicking in barrel vaults, mosaicked niches of trompe l’oeil busts, pale pietra dura roses put to shame by the one you’ve given me. The view, through one unstained central pane, of that million-tiled heavenward swelling, afloat over all such ancient roofs—that singular conicized breast (or blunted phallus), bone-ribbed, sucker-eyed, spire-nippled—that great old one, your witness and accuser and (if your hypocritical mouthings hold the slightest truth) devourer.

If I threw myself before any just judge, she’d award me this house, turn you tarred and feathered to peck in the piazza for pizza crusts, shunned and beshitten by legitimate pigeons. Instead, if I leave you, I must leave this. Cease banging and roaring for the space of a breath, and let me let me let me choose.

30

Datura #8 | 07_2020

To Pass Through the Fire

by Clarice Hare Just think of the atoms that die in your genes! Like the prayers you heard, crawling deep in your mother’s bones. O holocaust, o holocaust, o cashed-out night-breeze of misery— O son of a deceitful father, and father of suckling lions! Recall how afterward, you’d lift me down from the bombed or bulldozed wall, saying, “Come, still believing in hope, and let me bear the burden.” O hunter, o hairy brute, to trade your birthright for a bowl of bloody soup borne by some clinical midwife to Moloch.

31

Datura #8 | 07_2020

Living Next Door to a Fire-God

By John Grey My neighbor's out in the frigid air, breath steaming from every pore as he splits wood with his axe.

The his the And the I'm

blade's so sharp, muscle's so willed to the task, log doesn't stand a chance. his expression can only accommodate one thing task at hand. sure his mind is thinking nothing but hearth-fire.

He's not one to be deterred by drifts of snow, icy paths, chill prickling exposed skin.

He has a wheelbarrow to fill.

He is Ra or Mitra or Surya or Apollo a flame in flannel and anorak.

As night encroaches, my windows barely acknowledge moonlight.

I must scrape a hole just to admire the smoke rising from his chimney.

I shiver to the rattle of radiators.

I imagine he's in his parlor, succored by armchair cushion and wings, and the robust warm of hard work.

Oh how my envy rings.

It's such a blunt axe-head.

It strikes, reverberates, and always against the grain.

32

Datura #8 | 07_2020

Mississippi

By John Grey Looking down on the river is a huge silent estate with ten foot walls and wrought iron gates and hedges cut like Elvis Presley's hair.

I peak inside, spy an old woman resting on a stone bench with crouching lions at each end.

Streaks of sun through cypress turn her wrinkled face into a kind of arabesque of bright yellows and damaged purples.

It's warm out but her knees are covered in a blanket, just as streaks of red unnecessarily protect the blue of her eyes.

I imagine she was once one of those Southern belles I'd read about, dressed in all the finery that tobacco money could buy.

She sees me but doesn't smile.

The distance between us is more than just the finely cut-grass lawn.

The walls, the fence, are mere impersonations of the real barriers.

They say the river flows for rich and poor, high society and hoi-polloi alike.

But smell the magnolia, embrace the pride in her head.

She's just not a good example.

33

Datura #8 | 07_2020

Apples and Potatoes An excerpt from the novel Vote Bob

By Jaimen Shires "What's on your mind, dude?"

"Nothing."

I hate it when people ask me what's on my mind. What type of question is that? The mind is a pizza with a quantum number of toppings. Even if a person understood the question they were asking, they wouldn't have the time for the answer. Nor do I have the time to provide it. Fuck that shit.

If I did, by the time I finished my answer that answer would surely change.

"It's obviously something."

"Never mind. Fuck it. My brain is my burden, not yours."

Picking fries off of my plate while he feigns interest. Not bothered. I'm well into my burger now. Once I move onto my burger I'm done with the fries. Droops knows this.

"Burden me. I don't give a shit."

The words escaped between mashed potatoes, acting like mild silencers from behind his teeth.

I would tell him but the thing is, he doesn't actually want to know. He doesn't really care what's wrong with me, he just wants to know if it in any way affects him. It's fine, I don't blame him for it. Human nature. Self preservation. Whatever.

"Don't worry about it."

"Nah, fuck that shit. What's up, Spudley? Just spit it out."

34

Datura #8 | 07_2020

I hate when people pry. Especially Droops.

What's up? You really want to know what the fuck is up?

Fine.

I'm impatient.

Impatient of a world that sees its own fallacy and futility but refuses to accept it, and more-so continues to fight against accepting it.

I'm intolerant.

Intolerant of a system that forces me to function in a way that isn't logical or efficient.

And it's made me insensitive.

Insensitive towards my surroundings, because I don't want to be here. I don't understand the rules. Well, I understand the rules but they're inherently flawed and everyone seems to ignore this blatantly obvious detail. So, I try to maintain a level of numbness in order to cope with the everyday but now and then my thoughts begin racing out of control and all efforts to calm them down steer focus away from other aspects of my self-control, allowing for a little bit of emotion to seep through.

But actually, at the moment I still can't stop thinking of the night before, and the weight I'm still carrying from it.

The panic. The confusion.

The long, long night behind me now.

Thank God. My brain is tired.

But I can't help feeling that sitting here in this burger joint with Droops is a big waste of my time right now, "It's nothing."

"It's fucking something. You just paused before speaking and stared into nothingness for like thirty fucking seconds. Total 'Wonder Years' style. You played out a fucking monologue in your head, dude. Just say it. What's up?"

35

Datura #8 | 07_2020

It's the universe, it's the piece of potato stuck to your lip, and it's everything in between.

"It's nothing."

It's everything.

"Just fucking tell me dude."

"Just fucking tell you, eh? I don't really know what it is you want to hear. I'd tell you, but you wouldn't listen properly.

Fuck. Put it this way, think of an apple. Picture an apple in your fucking head."

"Okay. Calm down. Sure. I'll picture an apple in my fucking head."

"So, what colour was your apple?"

"Red." "Mine was green."

"So?" "Exactly. There's no point in trying to explain. It's like oil and water."

That should shut him up. I can see him thinking about it.

Holding a fry.

"So am I the oil or the water?"

"What the fuck does that matter? Be whichever one you want."

"Well, I'm the red one."

"Yeah, and I'm the fucking green one."

"Suit yourself."

"I usually fuckin' do."

"Whatever."

36

Datura #8 | 07_2020

"Yup, exactly. I'm glad we had this talk. It was fuckin' therapeutic."

"Indeed."

Fucking Droops.

Fuck this. I need a smoke.

"I'm going to just pay up and go for a smoke. See you outside."

He reaches for more fries.

Don't Judge Me by Jase Curtis from flickr.com

37

Datura #8 | 07_2020

A Prelude

By Yash Seyedbagheri It’s always preludes I savor, tinkling like an elegant piano before the first day of class before the bar, the whisper of possibilities drinks and communion and raucous tales of unabashed flaws and foibles, while I don my Polo shirt in rooms with sterile stench walls will I finally be welcomed tonight? will they call me friend in class? Is tonight the night I drift behind bar booths, inhaling laughter?

I savor many preludes, play them over wait for the right next section try to play at pronounced tempos, but people never come. they promise they’ll come promise promise. classmates withdraw into secret communion the bar’s too crowded and no familiar faces pontificate while playing pool or it’s so somnolent, I cry under dim lamplight give me sterile walls, unchanging where I can watch Netflix and drift into dreams of royalty or fucked up souls or a database to pick the right friends plug love for The Big Lebowski, for Nabokov what will I get? Who comes after this prelude? another email without action, another bar booth too wide but the next section always demands its due I leave the bar alone, at the shameful somnolent hour blackness broken by butter-colored streetlamps.

I worry about the joke I told in class corpse humor isn’t edgy? What about Trump’s orange tint? why can’t I just have a thousand preludes? the next section demands its due don’t go prelude play your elegant notes into another night

38

Datura #8 | 07_2020

If Only They Believed

By Fabrice Poussin The poet might be moved to a shutter wandering with the century’s father upon the dampened street of darkness thick with smoke dense with agony.

I know he would shrug the weary shoulders yoked by the weight of the decadence he knew passing by phantom of his own visions to continue on a path away from his brothers He named them hypocrites, readers very much in his likeness their own foes ghastly apparitions they still pretend to live in a day he foresaw in the shell of a rusty death.

So they scream the sorrow just invented for the pity of humanity to befall them as they worship the rubble of their own creation stones of hate cemented with the blood of oblivion.

Charles has died yet he haunts the realm for truth holds his ghost against all the lies he believes in the goodness of all mankind but sadly it is found only in the dead.

39

Datura #8 | 07_2020

New Math

By Gale Acuff If I don't go to Sunday School without missing a class unless I'm sick and if I don't say my prayers before I lay me down to sleep and if I commit sins intentionally, not that I won't sin accidentally, then I'll go to Hell for eternity, says Miss Hooker, my Sunday School teacher and she should know, she's 25 to my only-10 and she's saved and bound for Heaven sure while my fate's still up for grabs – I wish that she'd grab me, ha, because I'm in love with her and if God doesn't strike me down when I'm 18 or before then I'll ask for her hand so I can slap a ring on it, I mean on the right finger and that will settle everything. If she really loves me then maybe she'll marry me unsaved and reform me, sometime before I die or she does, she's fifteen years older, she's sure to die before I do and I don't know who else would take the trouble to save my soul by marrying me – I'm not even sure that she would but then she's so close to God that I'll take that chance. Oh, I've tried and tried to take Jesus as my personal savior but He doesn't seem to stick or maybe it's me. My folks don't come to church but send me instead and they tell me that I'm already saved, Jesus died for that, don't worry about Heaven and Hell too much, and for Christ's sake have you studied for your math test tomorrow? I tried but God got in the way, or maybe Satan, strange how they seem almost the same sometimes, they break my concentration, if anyone was born to be dead, it's me. Subtraction.

40

Datura #8 | 07_2020

Notre République (extrait) par Léonel Houssam. Editions Burn-Out. La croupe est pleine. 54e jour. « La

croupe

est

pleine

»

suivi

du

rire

gras

de

Bertrand

réajustant son jean blanc, torse nu musclé, triomphant, une beauté massive très seventies, pieds nus impeccables… A croire que les combats agissent sur lui comme une fontaine de jouvence. L’indien pompe son calumet, le regard noir tendu posé sur Bertrand: « Qu’est-ce t’as à me regarder comme un serial killer le peau rouge? J’ai fait ce que j’avais à faire. On a beau dire, les filles

des

magazines,

les

beautés

du

dancing,

les

bimbos

du

camping et les péteuses surfaites des réseaux, ça vaut pas une sangsue grassouillette et au corps pas vraiment symétrique. Elle était réticente, et alors? ça fait des millénaires que c’est comme ça. Avant de se décontracter, si tu vois c’que je veux dire » Clin d’œil rigolard lourd de sens.

L’indien avale une bouffé de fumée sans piper mots, l’air menaçant, réprobateur mais calme. « Elle est veuve. Elle est coincée là. Ils peuvent toujours dire que les « civils » sont des otages, c’est des conneries. Nous aussi,

on

peut

blablater

des

conneries.

Et

après

tout,

et

si

c’était pas leur Etat, leur fausse démocratie, leur économie de horde

qui

prenaient

en

otage

tous

les

civils

vivant

sur

leur

territoire ? On l’a été nous aussi hein ! L’indien, on en a chié, t’es même allé dans leurs geôles. Et pourquoi ? Parce que t’as buté un de leurs flics ! Ouais, un flic. Un père de famille, honnête, papa d’un ou deux gosses en bas-âge pour faire pleurer dans les chaumières. Mais le gentil papa, il portait un putain d’uniforme, il bossait pour eux, n’est-ce pas l’indien ? Il s’est mis

en

travers

de

ton

chemin

pour

protéger

les

biens

de

ses

maîtres. Vlan, balle dans la tête. Il a voulu faire la guerre, il a perdu.

41

Datura #8 | 07_2020

- Cette femme, c’est pas un flic à leur solde.

- Qu’est-ce que t’en sais ? Elle était dans la Rue de Notre République à notre arrivée ! Mais qui dit qu’elle bossait pas pour eux

?

Ils

sont

tous

tellement

contents

d’avoir

des

parcs

d’attractions, des crédits à la consommation, des victuailles à s’en faire péter les artères, des bagnoles-bélier pour défoncer l’ordre de la nature et de la planète ! Elle aimait bien ça. Elle vivait ici, on s’est pointés et elle est chez nous, sous notre régime. A cinq cents mètres au nord, au sud, à l’est, à l’ouest, on a des lignes de troufions et de gradés ennemis prêts à nous dérouiller. Ils peuvent dire que c’est une otage, si ils veulent. Ça

nous

arrange,

ça

évite

les

bombes

de

250kg

sur

la

gueule

balancées par leur Rafale… Quand ils comprendront que Jacqueline… « l’oooo-taaaa-geee » en redemandait encore quand je la baisais, ils enverront les chars et l’aviation et ils raseront le village tout entier… Otage ou pas otage. C’est comme ça. Profite ! Elle est encore sur le pieu, elle transpire comme un bœuf mais tu peux prendre ta part ».

L’indien crache par terre. Son regard toujours aussi noir. Il se lève de sa chaise, pipe au bec et se dirige vers l’entrée de la maison sans plus fixer Bertrand. Ce dernier s’esclaffe : « Eh tu vois hypocrite ! T’y va aussi ! Mets-lui la misère à la squaw ! » Un tir isolé fracasse la plénitude de cet après-midi chaud.

Aucun des combattants ne réagit vraiment. Après plusieurs semaines de siège, les habitudes s’installent. Chacun distingue désormais une détonation hostile d’un tir crétin.

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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

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

Event Horizon

by Norman J. Olson

by Valentina Cano

Un fémur est un homme pour

A Few Bullets Short of Home

vous

by A.J. Huffman

de Fabrice Marzuolo

http://urticalitblog.blogspot.fr urticalitblog@gmail.com

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