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Datura #12 | 07_21

BAGATO – BARNES – BEVERIDGE – BIDAULT BURZ – GOLDS – GREY – HOUSSAM – JACKSON PARENTELA

POUSSIN

ROBBERECHTS

ROBINETTE – SAGER – SLOBODA – TUSTIN


Dernière parution chez Urtica Press Le foutoir de Walter Ruhlmann L'amour est illusion, et même la luxure est dépouillée de son charme romantique et érotique. A l'intérieur, caché de l'amant, vit le loup, incarnation de l'appétit, aussi dangereux qu'énergique et sauvage. Ces poèmes se mettent à nu, rejetant les faux conforts d'une connexion facile et joyeuse. Les souvenirs n'offrent aucun confort. Plutôt, ils ramènent de vieux amants, dont certains oubliés depuis vingt ans, avec des images suggérant des choses sales, impures, ou même des tourments. Steve Klepetar, traduit de l’anglais par l’auteur.

ISBN : 9781008978935 Catégorie : Poésie Copyright : Tous droits réservés - Licence de copyright standard.

Caractéristiques : 48 Pages – Livre à couverture souple – Couleur de l’intérieur – Noir & Blanc Dimensions : A5

À commander auprès de l’éditeur Walter Ruhlmann urticalitblog@gmail.com 10€ frais de port compris -par chèque à l’ordre de Walter Ruhlmann - 60, rue du Prieuré 76540 Écretteville-sur-mer - France -par paiement Paypal avec l’adresse wruhlmann@laposte.net -autre moyen de paiement se renseigner à l’adresse urticalitblog@gmail.com ou directement sur le site de l’imprimeur 10 € plus frais de port et taxe €4,46 pour la France (prix affichés en $: $10,88 + $5,25)


Contents | Sommaire Cover illustration | Illustration de couverture: Claudio Parentela •

Docteur Burz: editorial

Fabrice Poussin : Eternal Life for a Dime, Memories for the Otherworld, Taste of the Dream, and The Maker's Mirror (poetry)

Stephen J. Golds: Requiem, The 7:51 Train Has Been Delayed, and A Flashing Blur of Faces and White Noise(poetry)

Yvan Robberechts: Le SDF et Mélancolie (poèmes)

John Grey: First Wife and Ghost Town in the Desert (poetry)

Heather Sager: Tattered Love (poetry)

John Tustin: The Hour and Shrink (poetry)

Christopher Barnes: Zips, 45 to 47 (poetry)

Robert Beveridge: Terrorist Sofa (poetry)

Sébastien Bidault: Claque de surf à Famara (poésie)

James Croal Jackson: The Days Are Bored With My language and Mist (poetry)

Gary Sloboda: remnants of the family album, flock, diagnostic, and buffalo (poetry)

Jeff Bagato: Milking an Elephant for Toothpaste in the Jungle and Sucking Soap on a Rope (poetry)

Justin F. Robinette: Aspergillum (fiction)

Christopher Barnes : ‘Chorus of Blood’ a review of Nothing Ever by Michael McAloran, Oneiros Books (non fiction)

Léonel Houssam: extraits de Notre République (roman)


Datura #12 | 07_2021

Editorial du Docteur Burz Cancel ta mère, ta vie, ta communauté, le monde… pis cancel ta gueule aussi. Déjà publié sur Les déraisons du docteur Burz le 10 mai 2021 https://ledocteurburz.wordpress.com/2021/05/10/cancel-ta-mere-tavie-ta-communaute-le-monde-pis-cancel-ta-gueule-aussi/ C’est beau la cancel culture vous ne trouvez pas ? Moi ça me fait bouillonner les testicules. Ça ressemble un peu à la gauche je trouve. Enfin à la gauche d’aujourd’hui, celle qui s’islami-gauchise. Jusqu’à présent, étaient réservés Maintenant on est dernier des cons suivrait.

le déni du présent ou la révision du passé à l’ultra droite, mais ça c’était avant. tellement imbu de la réalité que même si le criait « Touche pas à mon poste ! », on le

On déboulonne, on censure, on efface, on attaque, on accuse ici et là, les images, les textes, les paroles, les dessins, les vies des uns et des autres. Hier J.K.Rowling, aujourd’hui Pépé le Putois et Blanche Neige, demain Le Petit Prince et Pierre et le Loup. En revanche, ce qui est certain, c’est que le nœud du problème est majoritairement sexuel. Nous sommes vraiment dans un déboulonnage de la morale qui vise à éviter d’informer plutôt qu’à expliquer les maux. Le ton est au shocking, à la pudeur et à la fausse bienveillance. Et là, je me râpe les couilles au sol pour éviter de trop en dire. Alors évidemment, non, il n’y a pas que du sexe en jeu, y’a aussi la couleur du sexe. Bien sur, l’enjeu est aussi grand. Freud est une sorcière qu’il faut sans doute brûler sur la place publique, mais avec une cagoule des black panthers. 👻 Je ne voudrais minimiser aucune minorité et aucun combat pour éclaircir les méandres de celles et ceux qui ont souffert et souffrent encore. Du dénigrement dû au passé, de l’histoire, de l’identité sexuelle, de sa couleur de peau, des violences sexistes et incestueuses, du patriarcat, du racisme, du déracinement et de la migration, de l’esclavage moderne, de la pauvreté, du handicap, 4


Datura #12 | 07_2021

du capitalisme, de la religion, des mouvances nationalistes, du complotisme, des courants de pensées qui s’enlisent dans des artefacts infinis… Je ne minimise rien. Mais rien ne justifie d’effacer ou d’éradiquer ce qui a été, sous le seul prétexte que c’est mieux de ne pas y penser, donc d’y réfléchir. Le souvenir est la meilleure arme contre l’oubli. Et l’oubli est l’ami de la nouvelle haine, celle qui est animée par le besoin de faire renaître les problèmes oubliés. Ça fait de nous des abrutis irresponsables aussi intensément intéressants qu’un prime de Hanouna. Certes, nombre de grands noms n’ont pas que des beaux actes à leur actif, mais c’est parce que personne n’est parfait, woke et inclusif, comme aimerait nous faire croire la nouvelle génération du déni. Ça ressemble un peu à la théorie du grand remplacement, on efface tout et on recommence. Moi je propose une bonne bombe sur la gueule de tout le monde, car personne n’est innocent. 👻 Le monde propret n’existe pas, et n’existera jamais. Déjà tu votes, tu es donc bien placé pour savoir que c’est ta voix qui fait passer les connards et les connasses qui nous gouvernent. Ensuite tu fais caca, tu es donc bien placé là aussi pour faire de la merde comme tout le monde. Après tu penses et tu t’exprimes, là encore c’est une particularité humaine assez risquée, qui consiste la plupart du temps à ne pas rallier tout le monde à sa cause. Alors si en plus, pour simplifier ton existence, tu fais main basse sur le tord que les autres ont fait pour ne plus jamais en décortiquer les causes afin d’éviter de les refaire… tu appartiens donc à la race des sous-merdes qui éteindront ce monde une bonne fois pour toute. Toutes les erreurs ne sont pas des généralités, et même si elles ne peuvent pas toutes être réparées, ce n’est pas en les effaçant qu’on pourra s’en prémunir. Doit t-on brûler Mein Kampf sous prétexte qu’il faut oublier ? Non, il doit être disponible à la lecture pour que chacun comprenne l’ampleur et le désastre d’un scénario suprémaciste. Ne peut-on pas faire la biographie d’une poétesse noire si on est blanche ? Si, car ce qui compte ce n’est pas l’appartenance culturelle à une communauté, mais la passion qui anime ce que l’on aime et défend. 👻 5


Datura #12 | 07_2021

La cancel culture c’est le caca qu’on a en soit et qui nous pèse. On en évacue tous les jours des cacas, mais chaque jour un autre pousse à la porte le dernier, et le prochain caca devient le dernier caca avant un autre. On efface pas un caca, on le modèle chaque jour, pour un prochain caca bien ficelé. Il est possible que les adeptes de la cancel culture soient des constipés de la vie qui font caca très rarement. Et à chaque fois c’est la libération d’une occlusion, en moucheté de faïence. Ontils des femmes de ménage ou nettoient-ils leur merde eux-mêmes ? 👻 Amen (erase), Touti Quanti (erase) et Tralala (erase)… © Le Docteur d’extinction.

ouvre

un

lieu

dédié

6

à

une

espèce

en

voie


Datura #12 | 07_2021

ETERNAL LIFE FOR A DIME by Fabrice Poussin They aimed at a heaven below through the dreams above seeking to fulfill a promise of a life transcending in their hands almighty travelers of science in fractions of numbers and signs. They saw through infinite lenses, images of their many selves magicians with steel tools rebuilding what had once seemed to die success became real when again they walked tall from the tomb. They no longer strolled avenues of oaks, roses and cherry blossoms living off the stars, warm to the touch on hearts of icy blue metal tastes of sweets, scents of oceans, all meaningless now. Dogs howled at a friendlier moon while cats sought their friendship once again alone with no hand to feed them or show them care they took shelter in the palaces of those humans now departed. Men reached a heaven below, wishing for a throne above no more embracing, rather subsisting on a certain eternity now masters of a destiny beyond time, they stood stunned to life.

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MEMORIES FOR THE OTHERWORLD by Fabrice Poussin We commit moments to posterity to be told in ink on decaying parchment. Tales of a thousand and ten lives written on the in-folios of the temple. Chattering voices cover the peace in an eternity we hope to unravel. What will you and I recall of this citadel where we still share the intimacy of the pure? I know every curve of your delights the tremors of your heart as you savor the hour. Your essence reverberates to eternal distances entangled with the fibers of our destinies. You laugh in the corner of the dark alcove Invisible to the eye, so solid to the spirit. Seeking the light upon the horizon we search for tomorrow’s memory. What history will we take with us to fancy the closeness we made under the stormy mobs? For now, we rest in the warmth of a secret hearth dreaming a single kingdom atop the safety of Olympus.

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TASTE OF THE DREAM by Fabrice Poussin There was no desire to walk the realm safe inside the warm prison of the dream. They partook in the sweet nectar of holidays slowing sipping the thick substance of a sacred light. Erring from one room to the next they laughed making the walls tremble in their absence. No one recalled a recent encounter with those lovers of every day’s gentle treats. Children of a lost era, hand in hand they ventured brave to the freeing oblivion of a secret night. But in the death of frigid winters an aura similar to a newborn sun hovered in the halls. A poison to the living, a potion to children they pursued their journey alone in the void. alive beneath the thin silk she seemed to vanish delighting in the sublimation of her flesh. Her companion caught her remains in the cup of his palms to bear them closer to the beating of his chest. They had drunk the miraculous tenderness of the air to die only in a fantasy to unlock infinite gates. To the living they were but haunting ghosts behind doomed walls overcome by the Earth. Yet they went on with their wondrous fancies to never again encounter the sufferings of the mobs.

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THE MAKER’S MIRROR by Fabrice Poussin If God was to look into a mirror I wonder what would he see? When He looks down upon us mortals what does he spy? Upon His falling asleep somewhere in time what are His dreams? Sitting on a throne of alabaster with Peter what deeds do they learn? Alone with His creation everywhere in Heaven what are His thoughts? Walking down the streets of paradise is there a parade for Him? Should he close His all-seeing eyes, what would darkness be like?

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REQUIEM by Stephen Golds With all the doors locked, the curtains drawn. The television on mute, the clocks wound down. I thought I saw myself a ghost in this apartment a reflection in a grimy windowpane with your name etched in dirt.

THE 7:51 TRAIN HAS BEEN DELAYED by Stephen Golds People bitched and moaned, glancing and glancing again at wristwatches, sighing into cellphones, making disgusted faces while shaking their vacuous heads. A rusty speaker splashed with pidgin shit mumbling there had been an incident, apologizing for the inconvenience. Someone had jumped down the line. A whole life, desperately, isolated – extinguished into a simple inconvenient incident. I couldn’t help but feel that a point had been proven somewhere.

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A FLASHING BLUR OF FACES AND WHITE NOISE by Stephen Golds I snap my head up realizing I missed my subway stop. Ride the train all the way to the end of the line because I also realize I’ve got nowhere else to be anyhow.

Collage by Claudio Parentela

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LE S.D.F. de Yvan Robberechts Sous la pluie, blotti sur le trottoir, vissé dans le bitume. Tes jambes repliées dans ton imperméable en guenilles et tes chaussures ouvertes te font ressembler à un canard mouillé. Tu pues la vinasse, la pisse aigre et la mélancolie. Tu regardes par le trou de tes yeux, derrière les barreaux de ta tête, les gens passer comme des miradors. Peut-être que tu ressasses ton passé, tes rêves de chiffons rouges encornés par la vie. Peut-être que tu arpentes des souvenirs égarés dans une salle des pas perdus. Ou peut-être que dans ta tête il n'y a déjà plus que du sable. Un sablier qui efface et fond vers l'oubli. Dans ton portefeuille tu gardes un photomaton de toi jeune homme, du temps jadis, du temps d'avant. Avant cette trogne de gargouille. Avant d'être cabossé, éreinté, déchu, entarté par la vie. Avant d'être livré à ton ombre de bitume. Tu t'es levé. En gueulant. Tu es passé devant moi sans me voir. je t'ai regardé t'éloigner et à cet instant précis j'ai vu, sur tes épaules, le diable … Assis en souriant.

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MÉLANCOLIE de Yvan Robberechts Nuit blanche, idées noires. Il y a un insecte qui gratte... et gratte encore, comme à farfouille dans mes synapses. A travers les brumes céphalées, il gratte, et chemine d'un pas lourd, cuirassé de son exosquelette noir aux éclats de métal, petit guerrier de l'apocalypse livré aux friches de ma mémoire... c'est un bousier, qui vient parfois avec la nuit, creuser les déjections du passé et faire sa glaise puante de mes souvenirs les plus sombres. Gratte... gratte encore... Débusque les précipices oubliés, les abîmes enfouis, les terreurs enfantines, les serments trahis, et danse, avec les ombres, sur les arpèges surannés de la mélancolie.

Photograp h by Claudio Parentela

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FIRST WIFE by John Grey You prowled the alleys. I just wanted to read the newspaper. You climbed a flight of stairs to a rooftop. I wanted you with me, not high above. You scribbled graffiti on a wall. I wanted to talk about historic churches. You followed the wing-beats to the attic. I had heard of a pristine pond not that far. To you there was nothing like a labyrinth. To me, there was only time. You loved sweaty back rooms and cellars. I enjoyed reading about them in books. Lying in bed at night, I’d await your return. Sure you were beside me but that was just your way of being off somewhere. GHOST TOWN IN THE DESERT by John Grey A handful of buildings line a street of dust. On a hill above lurks a graveyard of forgotten names. On the wall of the abandoned church, century-old prayer has retreated into modern day graffiti. Having watered the land with their own blood, the pioneers’ payoff is for all to see: cacti for miles, as prickly as the heat; flowers that wonder why they bother to bloom. They call this a ghost town But the tracks of the haunting lead out of here.

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TATTERED LOVE by Heather Sager The draughts of Belgian beer and the gray-yellow clouds raking the vineyard hilltop in Saint-Émilion, do you remember those things? The sunny days back near our old home watching people bicycle through green Independence Park? I know the truth, even though we haven’t talked in so long. Sadly, you don’t remember the sky so blue when we lazed in each other’s arms, drunk, in the biergarten. The boisterous laughs and red cheeks of strangers were definitely forgotten. The calico lab dog who joined us from the crowd to share fleas and love. You only remember the mistakes I made. Today a marching band salutes the bygone war dead but no one recalls our frayed, decayed love.

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THE HOUR by John Tustin this is the hour to shoot my neighbor. this is the hour to get laid. this is the hour to break bottles in the grifting street. this is the hour to strangle who I hate most. this is the hour to converse with the ghosts that reside in cobwebbed attics. this is the hour to tip garbage pails in the windy moonlight. this is the hour spider-man dons his costume and battles imagined enemies. this is the hour to set my hair on fire. this is the hour that waves drown hope. this is the hour to finger besotted wounds. this is the hour that the intrigue concludes and the conclusion begins. this is the hour to induce vomiting. this is the hour to eat beyond satisfaction. this is the hour to bow and shake hands as I bleed to death from the nose and ears. this is the hour to tip the drunken scales toward madness. this is the hour the maniac impatient shows his face. this is the hour I need your arms, your lips, your words. this is the hour my tears dry up. this is the hour I need your tears. this is the hour I need you most. this is any day.

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SHRINK by John Tustin Dying like a moth dazzled in the light. Fluttering fragile, immolated midflight, just as the wings were beginning to spread. Crawling spindly-legged, a beggar, a sinner, broken-winged beneath the careless sun, desperate toward the reliable terror of total darkness, anonymity, trembling arms outstretched. Let the darkness descend, pour over me cool sick liquid, drown me, devour my eyes, soul-sucking womb, decrepit eternity. Shrink from the light, from life, from unintended disaster. Hide behind the door, cling to the curtains, peek through them sneering, bellicose, teary, weary, alone.   Clutch a Bible. Sing a dirge. Dream of somewhere.   Foaming and gagged on the floor, broken wings, plugged ears, ranting mouth, the light gets through, you burn, you burn there hot and lovely a moment. One moment, one match strike consuming you unnoticed in the everlasting night.   Shrink like a salted slug in a muggy June backyard evening. A cowed dog. A decaying moth. A broken little almost-man. Shrink like you. 18


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ZIP 45 by Christopher Barnes depilus flesh drafting tape rip wiped-off makeup raising leak-proof mylar she's hollow Ben chirps Ujima nude-line underwear heat-set mallow's dinky

ZIP 46 by Christopher Barnes foam paintbrush veined-cream brogues clump roots shantung cleavage gash irrepressible gentian tiered unwrapped sark Tom welters oyster moog inflates flow

ZIP 47 by Christopher Barnes linoleum notcher glitter clustered on shins Ike scores tendrils retailers jab phones glint-in-the-night jade six loincloths overlap chinfest resounds fair-shake bag

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TERRORIST SOFA by Robert Beveridge Velvet is your favorite color and beasts shadow your every move. Take two more. Angels ride the carpet. They cannot look at you. Swallow smoke from Texas border brush fires. Sleep in heavenly peace. Virgin is only a kind of beverage. The best prophylactic is thoughtlessness. You don't masturbate, tell yourself you have a headache. Your wife, the senator's executive secretary, likes to use her dildo on you. Speak up if you like it too. No one knows. You are stoic and your co-workers at the accounting office never invite you to barbeques. Terremoto. Terra cotta? It's all tile, and few tiles at that. Cut your losses and admit defeat while you still have time to save the poodles. Two more days until your email is restored. Sad sack. Piece of shit. Send it off to private school and get some fucking sleep.

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CLAQUES DE SURF À FAMARA de Sébastien Bidault Plage de Famara, le soleil cuit les peaux Des surfers à planches, largués de vans fleuris. La combi néoprène épouse le corps beau Comme une tortue va pondre ses oeufs salis. Le formateur a trois couches de crème blanche Sur le nez, traits fripés, alors je compatis. J’entre dans l’eau face à la vague qui s’épanche, C’est une claque, elle se répète, ma mie. Tu refais les gestes réussis sur le sable, Au courant, le bruit des masses d’eau inlassables Tapent les tympans et les oreilles grésillent. Seins cramés sur la grève et stress dans ce rouleau, Monter, coucher, debout, par l’écume je quille. La courbe est si courte, mieux vaut l’ombre du mot.

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THE DAYS ARE BORED WITH MY LANGUAGE by James Croal Jackson we are sitting closer to the television in a brand new bedroom not that we bought a new house rather rearranged everything the television Playstation mini tables dustballs morals we never labeled outside obvious corners the air conditioning vents in the faraway summer I hope never comes yes I am this amount jaded the new colorful reflections of the TV beside its fresh horizon almost like the screen’s outside where I can finally live my real life in pixelated terms I know I know I am conflicted about even the architectural oxygen the wood was inspected man just not by me I mean girders in the semi shallow underground been scrubbing raw potato skins only still to grok the boiled intentions steaming the mind’s kitchen I don’t got knives I don’t got any memory of the chicken carrot stew just I often feel infinitesimal I can’t stop filling overfilling the pot hot water simply abundance very thankful for plastic bags stuffed in the cold seam of the world our window won’t open

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MIST by James Croal Jackson mess of red awash on verdant streets your face the mist eyes closed a crease stained stagnant now what stops me stops you purple blue glimpse a rainbow near your voice a phone call never call again give me the words to say those words

Collage by Claudio Parentela

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remnants of the family album by Gary Sloboda a legacy of diet pills and cash / lost at the tracks / by groomed grievers from the upper / floors replace their shoulders / and then their knees / they want people to feel the lonely / potlucks in the breath of mint / like the form of aspirin dispersed / in the blood of teddy bear boyfriends / and cousins in baby blue rompers / their pixilated flesh of vulture / crumbs and enough oblivion / to empty themselves like conduits / robbed of wires in this province / time has turned to glaze.

flock by Gary Sloboda we were made small / the bitter vetch and crumb / sprung on the landscape / of our father’s dead hustle half- / moon smudged in oily puddles the spit / of bromides like junked chrome gathers / on the city’s edge built up / from slime of alluvial banks / where old men cast for suckerfish / among the poisonous flowers / burning like sofa bed castoffs / on a midnight curb we chugged / the difference nothing makes / dressed in the demographic as the river /sky and smokestacks rhymed.

diagnostic by Gary Sloboda it was unnerving to be honest / first the nurse then the doctor / said it was a lost cause / like a mad flurry of sand eating / away the paint of the cheap / stucco shacks that line my street / soon reduced to cinder blocks of vacancy / and the faded geranium outlines / still leaning in semi-circles / as if to study the habits and lost / earning capacity of another species / that lives uneasily inside its skeleton / and before the lightning bug signals / in the time between departure / and fail seeds unfurl like a sunflower / sail over empty lots and bluebonnet / ravines in the tired landscape / of backlit thinning hair and tchotchke / mementos of the sublime i tack / like idols to the weed infested walls.

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buffalo by Gary Sloboda last days of mild weather / borrow the fare and travel / slowly to signs that point to a sum / subtracted from the equation / golden days eaten by flies / in the firmament’s whir that endured / our conversations a wacked tapestry / the forsaken weave where you laid down / the law and spread the map’s / broken wings on the floor / of your mother’s old house / on that petulant street that ran / smack into a granite dream / and came out the other side / the way water falls / from a towering cliff and gives / the light its plaything.

Collage by Claudio Parentela

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MILKING AN ELEPHANT FOR TOOTHPASTE IN THE JUNGLE by Jeff Bagato The toothpaste liars grin white rows of choppers dripping venom upon innocent peaches and pears; soft flesh cringes at the threat of a bite, whether minty fresh or dogbreath stale—it’s all the same when your meat tears clear as a food for wolves, those who spin leather chairs and stain white boards with bloody claw marks and the cryptic scrawl of malignant figures that fail to sum; subtraction never occurs, and multiplication is the golden rule—if only toothpaste could cure the bald—or stretch a dangler to an epic fail, make it harder, or just get it laid— slim the waist, or build the bum— one cure-all could kill mankind, because without such goals, such dreams, such pains, what’s the point of buying anything at all? Toothpaste is a gift to civilization for solving one problem slow enough to win the sales— no fault in doing less with more, like milking an elephant with a tweezers over a ten gallon bucket— what you haven’t got comes out as hope, that prayer to make something from nothing, the belief a lazy wolf won’t use loaded dice in a chicken yard; whether heads or tails, the bite’s still fatal from canine jaws, like a guillotine coming down on a walnut, like a sledgehammer drinks a can of coke with a single blow, like a crane chews a mountain 26


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for its coal while wishing for bubblegum instead

SUCKING SOAP ON A ROPE by Jeff Bagato Cell phones burn under satellite skies lighting up faces yelling for new manna, adult diapers, and batteries that don’t catch fire One mallard can’t believe his duckweed and grubs weren’t delivered on time as promised; squirrels demand electric acorns, and spiders howl for flies in their soup A car park is like Tinder for bored automobiles waiting for drivers to return with the flit and the flair gathered at big box outlets for holiday dreams Sucking soap on a rope leaves lips puckered for an emoji kiss telegraphed down the wires, on the air, on the sunbeams— to the flames licking those cheeks and noses reflected in technomirrors so clean no one knows which is more real, or whose voice echoes on the line

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ASPERGILLUM by Justin F. Robinette

I grew into myself, but I should also say that it was a truly bad experience that turned me from a fag into a witch, into an exgay witch. The masc-jock type of gay man thinks it’s hot to worship Jesus.

Like a straight guy thinks it’s still cool to smoke.

Straight men are sometimes embarrassed to say, “I love Jesus, Jesus loves me.”

Masculine gay guys get off on it.

They tattoo

crosses on their chests, backs, biceps, and if they could, they’d probably

get

foreheads.

the

cross

tattooed

right

in

the

middle

of

their

I’d be surprised if they didn’t get hard when looking

at a crucifix.

The only thing that would make it better for them,

perhaps, is if the cross were upside-down, and the loincloth fell over the stomach of Christ, exposing what they could see, finally, was the form of the Holy Dick. When I was in my senior year of high school, I attended St. Paul’s Episcopal Church on Sundays, along with my mom, who had selected it because it was one of the only churches in the city which permitted women on the altar at that time. it

was

an

“LGBT-inclusive”

church,

I had also heard

whatever

that

meant.

Apparently, all the priests were gay. My mom didn’t know when I was hate-fucked by an older boy, an acolyte, at St. Paul’s that year. during the peace offering.

He actually shook our hands

He made me suck him following the Mass

in the back of the Rectory, forcing me all the way down to make me take it all.

After that, he fucked me from behind first with his

hand, then with just his dick, then hard with the aspergillum.

He

held my ass open by pulling up on the aspergillum and inserted his cock.

He fucked me with both at the same time.

They call it a

“double genuflection,” when you have to bow down the farthest you 28


Datura #12 | 07_2021

can go, to your ankles basically, sometimes to your knees, when you’re showing homage to God. He grabbed my hands, and held me by the wrists behind my back, riding me like I was an animal. farther,

nearly

all

the

returned from the service.

way

He pushed the aspergillum

inside.

All

before

the

priests

I never told my mother about it, but

it had me shitting out black roughage for several sweaty days, until she made me see a doctor.

I was scraped so hard with that

thing it left bruises on the inside, which I couldn’t feel that far up. it.

I grew abscesses, then fistulas, even years later from

I have a hard time now relating to any gay male who’s a

Christian. know

he’s

A gay guy who says he’s a Christian, that’s how you secretly

a

pervert.

A

gay

male

Christian

with

a

devotion to the cross especially, he’s compensating for something. He thinks it’s okay since he can ask for forgiveness afterward and it’s going to be fine. but it is.

I wish that wasn’t how it actually worked,

It’s pathetic.

If I could, I would choose not to be

gay, but that can’t be done. Christian.

So, I can choose not to be a gay

I can choose instead to be a gay witch.

Votive candles twinkled all over St. Paul’s, on the altar, at the back next to the statue depicting the Conversion of Saul, also at the statute of St. Matthew who was their minor patron, and in the side chapel, which was what they called the Lady Chapel. it was the Rectory where the fire started.

But,

St. Paul’s burned all

the way to the ground during eleven o’clock High Mass one Sunday. There’s an historical marker for the church there now.

They built

a fancy hotel on top of it, too.

I read an article in the

Philadelphia Inquirer about the fire.

I had also read up quite a

bit on the Tree of Life Synagogue massacre in Pittsburgh. wasn’t a fire. national

news.

Instead, it was a mass shooting. I

understood

Christian

churches

It

It made the were

mostly

insured against not just fire, but also terrorist attacks, and St. Paul’s would probably have been happy anyway to have all that

29


Datura #12 | 07_2021

money, even if it’s in lieu of no more church, no more people. Nobody actually died in the fire. My mother’s deceased now, and she died not knowing anything about the acolyte, the one that did it.

She wasn’t alive to see

the fire either, smoke rolling out of the windows, smoke coming out of the pipe organs, and the priests trying to gather all the consecrated hosts that day. while

screaming,

People ran out frantically, one woman

“Jesus-Christ-Son-of-God-Holy-Spirit,

save

me!”

The woman’s chapel veil was ablaze, she had to rip it from her head, but it had already singed her hair. contingent ran out together.

The whole gay male

That day they were really witnesses.

Everyone initially thought that Father Samuels, who was nearly eighty years’ old, forgot to turn a burner off on the stove in the Rectory.

No, the fire department said that couldn’t be true, they

doused the entire place in water, but the blaze roared, and it wouldn’t go out at first, like they said it had been set by gasoline. I no longer “attend” church anywhere now. sit

in

the

courtyard

during

Mass,

outside

Instead, I go to St.

Sebastian’s

Episcopal Church, the other gay church in the city, but at the other end, far away from what was formerly St. Paul’s.

While all

the parishioners are inside worshipping, I am burying things in the ground in the courtyard outside, covering it over so well so they

can’t

see,

cursing

them

nothing

Satanic,

mostly

folk

Catholic witchcraft – cursing them all, the Rector, his church, its cornerstone.

I bury animal bones I’ve collected (which exude

love and light), I whisper curses I’ve researched (which don’t), but, no, I’m not planning to burn down this church.

30


Datura #12 | 07_2021

CHORUS OF BLOOD (Christopher Barnes reviews 'Nothing Ever' by Michael McAloran. Oneiros Books.) 'Nothing Ever' is in a form neither fully prose nor is it conventional poetry. The language is heightened, intense; the composition dramatic and organic to its subject matter. Violence is explored at the psyche level, a place where literature can delve, but where factual writing merely skims. The tenor is experimental, obsessive, and chaotic, which suits the chosen theme perfectly – this chaos is artfully constructed. The situation is enacted by the words with a careful understanding of how English works. In this work, no section is what we would read as a beginning. The use of ellipsis shows we have come into the experiences in medias res: '...of waste headless attrition through a distance of scars'. 'Headless' and 'distance of scars' suggests the human body is more than a body, a temporal spiritual space, dead and alive. Violence within the image is stark, a way to know the Self. The relationship between perpetrator and victim is unstable; external and internal seem to synthesise. Further on we have: 'mockery tint of absolute to claim' which shows we are not in a dream or nightmare, real psychological impulses and motivations play out. Assumed 'mockery' justifies actions. Possession results from this, which causes us to doubt the authorial voice's agenda; within the telling, the woken ego seeks to influence us. Fetishistic and otherworldly matters come with the phrase: 'caress some violent scarlet rosary'. A rosary is for counting – here, it weighs on the 'scars' and dead or dying bodies that may be counted too. Counting is also timebased, it adds to the tension – moments between one violent act and another. The colour 'scarlet' is loaded with the implication of blood-splatter as a complex image, as well as the colour that often represents sin. 'Caress' as erotic, even loving, is well31


Datura #12 | 07_2021

chosen. An object is caressed, humans are not regarded as more important than the rosary – indeed they too are objectified. Music is also ritualistic and esoteric: '...dense weight of nocturne-in in semblance', the chords of existence are grand, profound. Imagined notes are mysterious, connecting spaces in darkness – they envelop. The 'in' repetitions are like a stutter, a visual demonstration correlating to awe. In: '- torn from echo's glint' the sound word 'echo's' takes us into the subliminal, an overwhelming space. It hints at the void, where one can lose oneself. In traditional grammar, 'of' denotes belonging to the word after it. Surprisingly, 'of' sometimes gives the sensation of wanting to move away from something: ' - yet what is of of some eye to trace the surface tension of frozen recollect'. Touch in darkness, real or figurative, is a way to merge or connect body to universe: 'blind bones to search throughout a braille sky'. To touch is to comprehend. As with de Sade, violence becomes a bore, excitement is blunted by the mind's exhaustion and inability to feel: 'division bathes in listless ennui'. Where it may have made one whole with the victim and the spiritual world, it ultimately divides and disappoints. Later on we have: 'light shone black'

32


Datura #12 | 07_2021

which is depressive, there is no joy in this violence. Using archaisms such as 'biteth' and 'cometh' do more than just evoke the Bible, which as a screed has violence aplenty. These words indicate that aggressive deeds and feelings we may have about them go back to the furthest history. The same contexts are therefore everlasting. This writing relates to a whole time of human violence, the implication being that this is our nature. We also note sexualised violence: 'down upon where the phallic victory seamless to caress a fragrance of delirium' indicates male power reached after orgasm: 'some spent simulacrum'. And more subtly: 'then nothing of it out of distance what else to bear/bare/once' intimates the external representation apropos the victim combining with the perpetrator’s understanding of what has been done. There are lots of fascinating images in these non-sentences: 'emptily enshroud in earthen clarity of blood' offers us an ambiguous, multi-layered vision, where earth itself is both an urn for the dead and a jug for intoxicating blood wine. Punning dark humour reminds us there is a persona behind the script: 'where closure fist is broken psalms'. It is quite a jolt to go from the esoteric to the human mind/ego, we feel the personality as real.

33


Datura #12 | 07_2021

'To fall first footstep' and 'to go is first flog' conjures New Year, renewal, but without hope or change; the future will be as the past. Time is a trap with no exit. Surrealism blends effortlessly into the linguistic melee: 'cloud across pupils long absent of skyline'. Inner and outer worlds reflect each other, they are not disconnectable. Within this phrase, in its literariness, we are conscious that this is authorship, the act of writing is in a tradition. On a different page we have: 'trace of cloud across white wall(ed)'. We are not being addressed by a voice, we are perusing a text. The two ways of reading and thinking in 'wall' and 'wall(ed)' are concretely expressed as a prompt, which helps the reader distance the violence, making it easier to digest. Repetition in images builds up their power: 'composure stillness of eye' and 'shattered concrete ocular to rove' for instance, bring us back to a very visual and decidedly human engrossment. The lines stalk our awareness that the violent events are watched. These pictures, once seen, are imprinted on the retina, which cannot be cleaned. Fusing surfaces can be both fuzzy and visceral:

34


Datura #12 | 07_2021

'teeth skinned of purpose' is a phrase economic and multifaceted with a below ground logic when considered as what Pound called a vortex. The idiom itself can be visionary. Technical aspects are fully realised. Mangling syntactical norms sparks an energy, pulling the reader along, especially in spaces between action and inaction. This is an important book not least for its example of how to use wordstock as its own vehicle, as opposed to using narrative merely to convey something separate from the symbols used. Though the pretext of this work might not be popular, I highly recommend close reading.

https://www.lulu.com/en/us/shop/michael-mcaloran/nothing-ever/ paperback/product-d8q9ze.html?page=1&pageSize=4

35


Datura #12 | 07_2021

Notre République (extraits) de Léonel Houssam. Editions Burn-Out. LE GRENIER EST À JAMAIS LA PIÈCE DU PENDU Le grenier est à jamais la pièce dédiée à la corde au pendu. Tapi dans l’ombre, l’indien aspire une grosse bouffée de son calumet. Il cligne lentement des yeux dans le temps suspendu de son filin spectral. Le sac à dos est prêt. Bertrand n’a plus qu’à y glisser le schéma du monde qu’il a dessiné sur du papier de boucher : « Je ne suis pas de ces chiens qui rêvent de vierges putes au paradis tout comme je ne suis pas de ceux qui égorgeraient un patron pour défendre leur anarchisme autoritaire. Je ne suis pas non plus, tu le sais déjà l’Indien, de ceux qui défendent un drapeau, une putain de pseudo-culture millénaire… Tous ces gens qui se réclament d’une lignée de virus mortels et néfastes me répugnent… Je ne vais pas me jeter par la fenêtre arme au poing, et

me

faire

trouer

la

panse

par

ces

connards

cagoulés

surentraînés… Je ne les laisserai pas faire. J’ai ici la carte l’Indien. Toi, tu vas prendre cette corde, tu vas la nouer à ton cou et tu sauteras de la petite chaise. Ta respiration sera coupée mais surtout tu vas mourir d’un coup net lorsque tes cervicales péteront sous le poids de ton corps chutant vers le parquet. Je détaille. Tu grimaces. Tu vas le faire. Et je vais partir. Sur ma carte du monde, il y a les quatre frontières. Tu refuses de me suivre, mais je te le dis, là-bas, il y a un peu plus qu’une micro-République assaillie par le monde des déjà-morts » Le carillon fonctionne encore. Il l’a remonté ce matin. Il est 22 heures. Le jour est encore là, flambant/crépusculaire. Dans trois heures, il quittera la maison par la trappe. Ça sent la mort. Ça sent la liberté. Ça sent la disparition. Ça sent le renouveau. L’indien monte sur la chaise. On ne fixe que ses pieds énormes et sales. On entend les fibres de la corde sur son cuir chevelu, sur la peau de son cou. On perçoit un petit raclement de gorge…

36


Datura #12 | 07_2021

LEUR NATION GRIGNOTÉE PAR LE CAPITALISME La

saveur

têtue

des

épices

dans

la

sueur

presque

séchée

du

combattant abattu. Bertrand est seul dans la maison… Seul avec les deux prisonniers encore vivants croupissants dans leurs cellules. « J’ai moins envie de Bastien depuis qu’il pue la pisse, la merde, la crasse… » Haut-parleur, voix qui grésille : « Rendez-vous ! Et libérez les otages… » Il savoure une cigarette après une énième branlette salvatrice. L’indien

est

là,

presque

translucide,

adossé

aux

rideaux

déchiquetés dansant au vent chaud. Personne ne tire. Il est dans l’encadrement

de

la

fenêtre

mais

personne

ne

le

bute.

Il

est

puissant. Sa peau cuivrée -couverte de strass de transpirationsublime ses muscles secs et forts. La clope qu’il fume est pendu à ses lèvres. Il est attentif. Ses yeux sont blancs, sans pupilles mais son regard est intense. Comment reconnaître un regard sans pupilles ? « On n’avait pas d’autre choix que d’être lisses. Comment veux-tu être lisse quand tu es furieux ? Depuis l’enfance je le suis. Je suis libre, je suis maître de ma vie, je suis seul, je suis avec tout le monde. Je prends qui je veux , comme je veux. Je tue, je fais naître… Oui je fais naître… Toutes les femmes que j’ai prises de force ou avec leur accord, il y en a qui ont enfanté. Elles n’ont pas regretté. Il leur restera quelque chose, quelqu’un quand elles

seront

cancéreuses

ou

grabataires.

Un

mioche

qui

les

regardera avec les yeux vitreux, plein de tristesse. Oh la pauvre maman qui s’en va, mais ne s’en va pas seul, il y a le mioche de l’autre salaud qui un soir d’été l’a prise debout dans une ruelle puante, à la sortie d’une boite, qu’il lui a injectée la semence avant de ne plus laisser de nouvelles. Elle n’a pas avorté à l’époque parce que le déni de grossesse l’avait portée trop loin pour le faire… J’ai fait naître, et j’ai fait mourir. Et j’y

37


Datura #12 | 07_2021

passerai moi aussi, mais jusqu’ici l’indien, je suis là, debout, en pleine forme. Et ces cons dehors qui vident leurs chargeurs sur la baraque, ils n’auront rien. Ils se sont enrôlés parce qu’ils voulaient défendre leur Nation grignotée par le capitalisme, la bourgeoisie, la mondialisation, la globalisation de la dictature libérale.

Ils

croient

défendre

des

valeurs,

un

drapeau,

leur

famille grotesque, alors qu’ils ne sont que le bras armé de leur propre

fion,

les

petits

tirailleurs

serviles

du

vingt-unième

siècle. Ils ont peur de mourir malgré tout. Ils veulent fonder une famille, s’acheter une maison à crédit et baiser une pute une fois de temps en temps. Et moi, en face, moi la République, la vraie, la pure, celle qui se fonde dans la violence, le sang, la pureté, je suis là, bien debout, toujours vivant… Vivant… Enfin vivant dans cette dimension, à ce niveau de conscience… En attendant de mourir de cet état, et de vivre dans un autre état, une autre dimension de conscience… Ils peuvent me menacer, me canarder, je n’ai pas peur… Qui a peur de mourir quand il sait qu’il ne s’agit que d’une étape ? Eux ne savent pas. Ils savent nettoyer leurs armes, faire leur lit au carré, nouer leurs lacets, lire, écrire, écouter de la merde, mais ils ne savent rien. J’ai hâte qu’on remplace

les

troufions

par

des

machines,

et

que

ces

machines

butent tout le monde ! » L’indien n’est plus là. Le rideau s’est figé. Le vent a cessé. Il rampe jusqu’à l’escalier pour rejoindre le grenier. Là-haut, il s’habillera. Il se lavera un peu avant ça avec l’eau de pluie récoltée dans les bassines positionnées près des gouttières sur le toit

en

tuiles

orangées.

Il

mangera

une

boite

de

saucisses

lentilles. Il chargera son arme. Mettra le couteau à la ceinture. Le Haut-Parleur : « Rendez-vous ! Nous serons contraints de mener l’assaut si vous n’obtempérez pas ! » Il se dit qu’un « rendez-vous », c’est un très bon moment à passer parfois.

38


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Datura Issue 12  

Contents | Sommaire Cover illustration | Illustration de couverture: Claudio Parentela • Docteur Burz: editorial • Fabrice Poussin...

Datura Issue 12  

Contents | Sommaire Cover illustration | Illustration de couverture: Claudio Parentela • Docteur Burz: editorial • Fabrice Poussin...

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