click image to enlarge

Killing Fields

The thick weeds stood tall, devoid of any moisture
the movement hypnotizing as they swayed dangerously in the wind
The sun licking each strand as it slowly descended below shadow covered mountains
a breath is released, pushing against the atomsphere, bending space and time
our hands curl around inevietablity, so very tangible under this darkening sky
The dirt grinds hard against the souls of wayward men, exhausted and lonely
The gods stare down upon us, and hollow eyes stare back
memories of river banks and her skirt pulled up to catch a glimpse of smooth milky skin
her hair falling around her face as she looked deep into the water
slowly her eyes met mine and she smiled at me

Before Kafka There Was Walser

Max Brod, to the best of my knowledge, is dead, poor bastard. That, I conjecture, is what being friends with Kafka ends with; deadness. What a horror: my hair, if that is what it is, was whored, smeared upside against the fracture of my skull, brittle follicle remnants, arching, crestfallen, trying to form a hirsute whole. This, I can assure, was not a pretty sight, sadly enough for me, I suppose. Perhaps a Kafkaesque hair cut is in order, stiffened and terrorized by a monstrous paternal abusiveness. Poor black-lunged bastard. In one story a character, who we are led to believe is Kafka himself, throws himself from the parapet of a bridge into the black-roil of channel-water after his cuntish father admonishes him for wanting to marry. Such savage infanticide is criminal.

I now address an appeal to the healthy: don’t persist in reading nothing but healthy books, acquaint yourselves also with so-called pathological literature, from which you may derive considerable edification. Healthy people should always, so to speak, take certain risks. For what other reason, blast and confound it, is a person healthy? Simply in order to stop living one day at the height of one’s health? Damned bleak fate…I know now more than ever that intellectual circles are filled with philistinism, I mean, moral and aesthetic chickenheartedness, Timidity, though, is unhealthy.
Robert Walser (The Robber)

If I Were Kafka's Ghost

if I were Kafka’s ghost
I’d blind my eyes of sight
and eat the storm and carrion

that forever scolds the night
no Freudian recanting

nor blissful oedipal fright
just simple cunnilingus

tongue rasping in delight

Snowing again!

What about this chair in the snow outside Prästmon's discontinued railway station?

Dreams Dreamt While Sleeping

He dreamt he was wearing a coalman’s cap, a double-knit seafarer’s sweater and a pair of hobnail boots. He dreamt in his sleep, or so he said. His dreams were full to brimming with well-wishes, balls of string and an egg-tray with Beeves’ and Ives handle-ware. He slept in his sleep, dreaming dreams about a world he felt at odds and evens with, dreaming dreamt dreams dreamt while dreaming he was asleep sleeping. He put on his coalman’s cap, his seafarer’s sweater and double-laced his hobnails, all while sleeping and dreaming dreams about wearing a coalman’s cap, a double-knit seafarer’s sweater and a pair of hobnail boots. Dreams dreamt are never what they seem, or so he said.

last aerie come an eagle decked for lasik surgery
home to rabbits under bush the glancing hunger
mortgages but cold as a basement digger's hands
nobody knocks on the leafpiles where squirrels shuffle

gargoyle series


Thankful always I will be

Grateful from take one

As if I was declared dead

While still smiling on the live stream

Forever feeding sharks real questions

For which most answers brawl

To get to the top of the bait pile

I die every day exactly as if

I was only living to hear

The sound of one real question

To kill me or not to see me

Blind ones living out to the fullest

Their final fantasy of stomping

The natural extension

To the downwards spiral

Pay attention before take two

For the skeletons are kicking calendars

Usually hidden in my closet

While spreading unruly rumours

Between the sweaty sheets

With all this undue respect

And other backwards thinking habits

That gathers around here

In front of the forest fire

I smear my dirty fingerprints

All over the forbidden screen

With freestyle ambitions

Of becoming just another

One waiting for my genius

To be discovered at last

For my treasure to be unearthed

And for my cookie to finally crumble

As long as the big bites

End up in a coffee cup

Where the blood feels thicker

Than a stormy glass of water.

la poussière de torse d'arbre de moutons

the rub

while brushing up on hired eagerness (finishing all you have lent me)
a word crawled into my mouth
I lapped up figures of speech
- some things are just not straightforward

Moon Facts


Like a weathering Jesus
Stuck to the dashboard
With a cello between her knees
As the beaten up vehicle tears
Down the speedway
To another colour hell
It used to be another story
But now for all intents and
Faced with the utter lack of purpose
She bitches since I levitate
Pretending not to see me
Hovering around the clouds
Suspended on the brink
Of her lament in C minor
Now that I have surmised her secret
She bitches on a speeding mission
Where for better or for worse
She smiles like pending doom
As to throw me the curve
I need to make the final stretch
In the pole position always
Hurdling unfinished obstacles
To the finish she grasps
For a cubic foot of birthrights
So there’s nothing for me to add
Alas she is bitching to the beat.


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Spider Girl

plugged in somatic

Torsos, a naked kind of leather scared and attrited. Grapple-batons, absent blades, scissors and sickles in the shadows of these bodies. Cyphers and memories / bruises and scars. Khaki shredded, a bemused logo, rags upon hides / upon sides / portions of meat in mud. Of this image / of wrestlers that flog the canvas / of the campaigns released in the face, full / square in the face. The ID and its new wave language, urban after-hours issue and glossy strands of an attitude inserted in black rubber of embossed body-armour.


the thought of puking bile
covered chunks of expertise
in my children's
hungry mouths
motivates me

opening their doors
in the evening
with all i've gathered
throughout the day
in my throat

"hello son,


have some
cunning stew


here's some gooey-soft

my eldest
over the kitchen
table gobbling
a can of
thick and hearty

and after awhile
the pace would quicken
and every thirty seconds
they could fill
a bowl
with their loving
father's fertile

they must learn
to come and get it
out his mouth

his jaws
ripping the heads
off worms


in that
they could die
falling out of the nest
picked up by a kind
or possibly a priest

each of my children
huddled in a pinch
of yellow grass
shivering featherless
in a shoe box

all their chunks in vain
as every bird they'd sheltered
ever knew
its their father's scent
strangely refusing

gruis (trigga happy hairy monsta fret show)

gru grit gruis grom da
geruis gerief geruf gemor
gaffel graven gerven vragen
vergen vroege k lag da

gruis da
gruis da
gruis da
gruis da

gr uis

u is
is s

To CD: a tormented sonnet...

Sev'n-ring'd nights , theme song, will close with a bang
and your scatter'd Voice is falling to a twang
and your phantom HAND deep down in my heartlace
will reattach Life long-forgotten from long-forgotten grace .

Loud cries will mutter: oh, stay, you, Ruby Drops
and Wings of Time will smoothly surface my time props
making Night longer for the rough revealers
he knows another sallow morning will soon heal hers.

Rose incarnadine I am with False retreats that burn
that make my drowsy absent Worshipper again return
I cry and strike your Soul 's Winter-garment born in summer
and stars keep coming, the flight of Stars that died some time ago,
Your Heav'n is much bitter than your Turret Nightingale's lean glow .

That open Spring of Light that kindles all deep water
and Birds and Lips and Solitude to you are shown in turn
until the "RedSadWake" of your desire will ultimately burn!

Amplification of Idea

... or sounds as if

on translating all sides of the story, our rebel, now glowing temperately, reveals, for clues, the light in nevertheless, or in spite of the clues, light reveals her still escapes, which already leak in you or lick at you, on the quickness slopes that snap just about everything
or sounds as if

The Power of Choosing

John's House of Pizza

Cogito interuptus (premature emasculation) Cartesian gramicidin: antibiotic obtained from the bacterial species Bacillus-brevis-Kierkegaard which is found in rich Danish soil. Gramicidin is particularly effective against gram-positive bacteria (see Gram-stain-Parsons). John’s House of Pizza makes the best pizza in town. He knew a poet with hammer-thumbs. Sautee one Spanish onion in olive oil, fennel and allspice, add a soupcon of boiled fencepost modernism and a green, very green, scallion. Apply a cold compress to the area surrounding the boil, increase the pressure and count to five. Repeat until the compress decompresses, repeat ad nausea (see J.P. Sartre). Make a paper-hat out of cardboard. It was John, John of John’s House of Pizza who discovered Rothko’s remains, not Jim of Jim’s House of Pancakes as some maintain. Take three-quarters tincture of Melba and one-third dole of Ryle and mix until well blended. The resultant exegesis is a really, really bad Concept of Mind. (Cogito interuptus: rich, very rich Danish soil and a soupcon of fencepost modernism).
(Why must I) So now I must be bad ass kick ass
Give a skinny rat's ass
What is it about my cul d'enfer
That sets you down on your ass
Take my sorry ass and kiss it

Flailing like fish upriver failing upward
Why spawn, when
Fish wants to be, knows the wave, knows the water
As water knows to tug the leaping fish

Why have him when I can love him

Culpa, mea, felis, Felix!
Big cats in my sous soul, padding, lynx and panther
Make a space for my love, clear it
For he will spread like water (je ne coule pas)
Into this crawl space
These floorboards undone by threats termitic
Or creepy crawlies, water-borne and surface-skimming
The goldflake, peeling, glisters, and walls show
Signs of damage by water
Does that scare the cats? And will my tiger's stripes recede
Pull back to bare
Filed teeth and pink-red tongue

Where is my friend
Can I not (why can't I) journey with my friend
Why must I wander through his dream
And you in my zoo, my waking life

He's spoken in a fumbled moment
Of his feeling
And if I could oblige him, he said
Why, he'd like that
"Unbearable," he said
As if the press of that word
Were enough to draw me into his murk mirth mouth
Full of dates and figs, citron
It's all talking beasts, you see, and all the words
Are known, I know them
But if once your voice gives out
What is that

To CD-san

Current mood: awake
Category: Romance and Relationships

small stubbed world . the principle for Bonsai branches
fingers calibrating cup in thin air
wild cuttings, elements wild. well pruned. pain.
dead air charge equalization
become beautiful with shape.
smoothness of kimono sleeve touching skin
balance between separate centuries. positioned by health.
leafed as a reminder of age . heaven earth beauty.
his eyes . nameless . red powder on the nape.
complete hybrid likes pruning . small seeds
red light in teacup.
universal bonsai off-center . roots triangular. pain
scratch proof.
shin-zen-bi . plant age, naturally transplanted . pain
visual entity repotting. bonsai dwarfs ' wiring
generation in asymmetry . centimetre pain
container Buddhism

when and

yer breath is filled with something

something thing


as when

which is which

which is breathless

breath less breath

between teeth and b's

oR that other pressing place



then I hear your hair on fire


as when a sonnet snare it track
fumble over the high ground of its pentameter

or corseted crossing the rhetoric of its accident
you've sent the face this amber shell
carrying back its smitten fare

when it worked around the couplet
hankering a couple's lovered body
clacked by the Sunday coup-de-grace
pause its turn to legitimize grace of your hair
yer handing this finger clandestine
Sunday and moon clocks over
gathered in your sneaky feet

not necessary to you swill porches round-abouts
and card moochers

this is not night
a sonnet bearing down like a geese
out of shadow
a permanent toss between every expected page


this is the glue holding your fort
the rafters
looking off rime gate-postings

of cheese by your body glowing
in the dark

where my fingers please every native hole


Bulb Light

… of all time

the greatest recurrence of all time
is the dodged pitfall:
a sour-grape say

instead of an unmistakable direction, all the time taking the greatest mistake back to its origins in wrongly taking, or carrying a mis to a shut-eyed bearing

on the way to becoming a muffle fervent rebel presenting a portfolio of sound

Fer the Pardy (sketch)

Bulb Time

how can the earth show patch of light in drone colours? fasting of earth while plump- bulbs settle into soil for the winter of living. bold nestling bulbs, with flowers inside, steam heartlessly at this time. beaming tidal bulbs, wolfish with radiance, tho lines are drawn. kindled, metaphysical ramparts of bulbs, that hire dreamy lords and ladies to laugh at the sundered remains of the exquisite action. busted impulse bulbs, squiring the rest of show season into clear relation. born bulbs seething with your gulf. trackless bulbs of feral aroma, prancing into Christmas chess game while Lindsay Lohan pukes new moon. righteous endless bulbs that cannot save, leaving nothing but sleep for the reasonable amongst us. and a poem only owns a tone or two, then shutters down to the dark.


The carnival in the forest leaves no trace,
interior nomad born of autumn bright;
across the campus pillar'd halls hoard sleight
and runic annal-lace.

I crunch these paths so long ago first trod
by me, or something half resembling me:
what one might call largesse or treachery,
has swept the inly-flawed.

Coldly brilliant Fall like nowhere else,
as i again will in this word-heap browse
the chamber of a morning; briefly house
my solitude that melts.

Far, but always at my fingertips,
the thought of war--and how does one decline
our latest gift? except with books or wine
across pried lips.

Panther guides the young seeker

Panther says, “I don’t feel your pain.
The voice explained to me this morning
that enlightenment isn’t bounded by the lines
around the train platform, by the stations
of the cross, by the cardinal points and arrows
drawn along the river bluffs.” Panther says,
“This rite of passage is not a synonym
for ‘experiment.’”

smoke in the sky

8-word poem

Here's hoping
That his girl
Will calm down.

A Newer Ending

You said, unreasonably
cruel, "I never loved you"...
the bullet came from
the barrel of the same gun

blood was shed
before the body fell

I remember, suddenly,
how difficult it is
to re-attach a severed
nerve; each jagged cell

develops a different
map of fibrous endings
or lizards when they lose
their tails, grow fresh ones

stronger, shinier, resilient.
And the shame my memory
bears does not belong
to me but you because

you are the one who
fastened it there.

Eternal Artifice

the sea's porous skin
wrinkles over

limestone bones;

do you take this
immeasurable water
to be your life?

immeasurable because
I cannot see

its whole-ness.

Now, I am a cloud,
beautiful, bodiless
looking down

over the ocean,
over my life;

I can see
how small forever
must be

when I rise
above it.


you can’t eat it but, ten year
old grit, imposto profissional,
sixteen year old art, idiot gram,
still dayglo, nicht vergessen,
walking on letters, one red ant,
iass, see what’s going on, grasses
of the world, das frohliche
wohnzimmer, sad ostateczny,
early computer art, rupocinski,
brain cell dies, what’s real
and what’s not, a sign of,
neostropos, permanent memory,
reality agent, art for the
finder, no, fingertips, juncollage,
still dada, front cover, back,

aged work, deep throttle,
sloggin’, where do you want
your work to appear, jkme,
meat rope, always have to clear
customs, face keeps cropping
up, nothing is too small to
see, nothing more luminous,
how many of these did you
send out, track me down,

ah ha… did you think you were all snugly comfy

with your sensitivities to slotting in, slipping in, tucking in, sneaking in…
I can tiptoe right past your earliest niche, gambling on outcry

whatever happens inconsistencies take [insert] hostage
and in being privy to suss, animation holds ransom ransom

shabh Diwali

Effortless anthropomorphism. Put the tiger’s
medallion on the shrine to the tiger.
Saying it
make it so. Burned the gold coin on the
Ganges riverbank in December.
Take that you
paleface devil from Santa Croce della Potato!
Therefore be of good cheer, for imperatives and
hortatory subjunctives are on special this week
—three for the price of one.
Gnomic aorists
don’t know how to keep a properly appointed
home. And surgeons named Galahad rarely
become stars in Bollywood.
Gorilla grass—
these are the wild sons of the Palimpsest.

Creating Shadow

I should have grown up happy
despite the expectations...
can we be so sure we are
such a disappointment?

And when we pray, what sound
is heard on the other side of existence-
a small, desperate scratching
at the door? I believe that

sorrow is an animal of sickness,
that love is nothing more than
begging for a warmer burrow,
a hand to stroke our fur.

All the scientists of reason, all
elusive, natural explanations
leave us colder, darker, needing
comfort than the shadows

we create.



paul conneally


One of a series of images featuring material found in the tidying up section of INVIGILATOR : DERBY

conneally kev ryan nikki pugh invigilator derby



proposed found audio clip installation 2007

nikki pugh & paul conneally

Note to Self

1st alarm:
(clock says)

In shower
(clock says)

Leave when
clock says


Bone Instrument

to say the least


Your dog has been neutered today.

He may be a little groggy and/or nauseous this evening.


An End to Storytelling

Had I a moment’s rest I would tell you a story, a story that would put an end to storytelling. I would tell it to you slowly, deliberately, slowly and deliberately. I would tell it to you once, and then never tell it again, not to another soul, never again. I would yell it, scream it at the top of my lungs; so loud that all would hear, even the deaf. If I had the time and patience I would tell you a story, a story to end all storytelling, the story of my life, one life among many, the story to end all stories, my life.

Years go by

We agreed to shut down the pages

Again, I Ask

I know too much about life

and so little. The writing

is on the wall, they say-

where is that wall?

Profoundly intelligent,

the river says nothing

at all; for this reason,

stones are deaf.

What great knowledge

the empty bodied stars

impart without knowing

the meaning of love.

On a hillside, the moon

begins its nightly walk;

no question or doubting

its well-worn path.

OPEN UP IT’S THE 13th!!!

If you really need to know

It was once on a ninth of November

That I once broke a leg

Which I desperately

Needed to get

From A to be

Myself begging

For little coins of isolation

On a day just like today

Standing around on these

Two all of a sudden

Very solitary legs

When the tenth

Came with big truth shoe

That I dragged back

From the hospital’s

Ball and chain contraption

The fresh cast

Unlike a recent divorce

Holding me back

From flying over clouds

Wireless way before the day

And sowing words

All through the night

Alcohol, sex, drugs

Of course I never wrote Angel

And then just naught

I slowly begun spending

More breathe asking

At times even begging

For just the sample of a chance

To wait it all out

So different was the eleventh

That I found someone I’d lost

Stumbled onto someone

On her way back to the bridge

Under which others

Just like us sleep

I broke in my address

To her makeshift tent

Twice the following twelfth

She buzzed ding! Dring!

My concentration off cue

Somewhere to the left

There were so many maple leaves

All bleeding on the sidewalks

That the calendar broke loose

While in a pose longing

To give her soul she stood

At my door’s desperate brink

Hoping for understanding

And maybe a little more

Of what only soon I would surmise

Then on the thirteenth

It was all to be elapsed

As I woke to her underwear

In the sink

She had slipped away

With my credit cards

And the rest of the scotch

So I drank the fourteenth

Away sopping like a stray

In my own perishable prison

Until she called me

From this bar

Where we now hold hands

Like spies sharing secrets

So unless you call about

Something serious

Just leave a message

I’ll get back to ya!!!

(5 spontaneous lines
from last weekend)

Alas! o seeming wastrel, human kindness never swerved
Upon its nearing course to thee, but breaking off from clouds
Of mortal castigation, instead renounced your minist’ring hopes,
Gave long thought to, then abandoned time-worn sensitivities
In life’s habitation, ‘mid despair and hopefulness—adrift, waiting.

The Gay Agenda Open The Door


Green Reaching Toward Ya

patience / wrists


    "Darth Cheney on Jenkem"

But were it so, that i stood idly by
Through all my country's enemies' mad reign;

And did not even raise one angry word
Audible ten feet off, from this moraine;

And were it so, that i let all this pass,
Nor daily flayed my conscience with arraign:

What if i did, not lonely in my sloom
But as a myriad dogs, penned in the rain?

brain power

sure of itselftoo few

contributingthoughts like this

this is an ideal

erasure drags

holding reasonpressing

wage waiting

sugar creamtap racing wash over

this system isn’t significant enoughand looking

contributingseems the state of outrage controlencapsulation

this is the ideal

wrapped in brown washrags

they bend their knees and bow their heads

passion wasn’t my ideaa limitless pressing

has and in this way we learn

please praise me now

the brilliant kaleidoscope
emanates from the soul
through the portal of darkness
the window, the door, the opening
to the source

the source is the same
the source found in the blackness of night
the source, the depth of the well
the source, the black in the center of it all

beyond the source, the colors and textures abound
perception and judgment of the viewer to unwound
and create within them the illusion they seek
for the kaleidoscope bears a prism
creating the unique individuals we treat
based on the hues of our own designs
until we choose to bring it all in
as the brilliance it is without giving it more
than it truly deserves because until
i see the eyes without the pupils of void
each human being can choose to behold
the mesmerization of the variety of skin
or the connection to source we all hold within.

peace & harmony,
'freedom must be exercised to stay in shape!'

Thursday Poem

A poem a day
Keeps them nasty
Vicious critters away
Or so it seems
At least during daylight
Hours to the second
So don’t get all wrinkled
If you see my words
Cremating hours
Overcoming craggy deadbeat
And hollow hearts
Sundays included
Strain the test
Stretch the line
Widen those horizons
Until a jolt
Smears everything in sight
Knocking shit down from flight
Then and only then
All the illusions
Will seize the solitude
Hands crimped
Around it’s neck
Like the forbidden lace
In the beauty of her necklace.
guimond – 8nov.07

Face # 65


from the word ‘go’
comes a sieve chartered for Bygones
by Bygones: “go through you hot-headed pastists,
boot-licking yesterday for a taste of ‘I told you so’ ”

embarking on idle
my up-to-the-minute fad
I stay neck-and-neck with myself

while they say: “what have you done donedonedonedonedone?”

dada duffy bC_aD: come to the island

dada duffy bC_aD: come to the island


That darksome cave we enter, where we find
That cursed shape, low sitting on the ground
Musing full sadly in its sullen mind,OK.

I am afraid
a fierce warr and faithful love shall moralize
my song
and my sweet, faithful maid, K.

Entire affection hateth nicer hands
For of the soule the body shape doth take;
For soule is forme, and does the body make
(opinion is all determined by feeling, & not by intellect)
this is my cheapest, brightest act...
and rhyme

Eftsoones we heard a most melodious sound
as coming from an ampler ether, a diviner aire
A haiku ?

Hey, look at me, guys! (hey, look)
I know how to count sylla
bles! I'm a poet !
(not a eunuch)
says pracowity from MetaFilter ET

You know, his angel's face
As the great eye of heaven , shyned bright,
And made a sunshine in the shady place,
all right.

I don't like haiku
Because you can only use
seventeen syllab,
said disturbed loner
and left the garden-donor
When roses red and violets in flowre blew
And all the ghastly creatures that in the forest grew
Entered the space in there. Got into you. ha ha

be bolde, be bolde, be bolde
and everywhere in or out,
be bolde, if you still can,
be bolde and true ha ha
and true and true and true
ha ha , mmmm, true

The Wall Paper


"What small hands

you have" she said

to the perfect

bloom of magnolia

"how large your

white-golden head!"

Dark Lion

Lion's play: how darkness

hides among the leaves;

hides whose eyes are

predatory, mesmerizing.

I assure you, terror

is more obvious than this;

blinding light creates

its own confusion, doubt.

Are we justified to

cut our losses quickly,

bolting into night, racing

towards obliteration

with no resistance?

The prophets say so-

"here is my life, here is

wealth that I have stolen".

The beast is not a beast,

but mirror reflecting inward;

see how darkness licks

its lips for moonlight?

dream of L(a)os(Angeles)

dreamed every floor a different moonscape
in the city / every floor a cloudscape in moon
wood beams and ornaments cut into the elevator
like heavy Tudor tavern style / on the sixth floor
a group of friends and contesting lovers waits
the right moon in the correct position, night sky
clouds over Los Angeles so bright, over Laos

pysanky For Padmas's Poetry # 120


This afternoon, the verses read,
every poet questioning the glare
of sunlight, the black-footed
night, the wild-purple iris
(why are they considered wild
with such a gentle disposition

Today I vow to leave my worries
to the air, the fragile frightened
moths who search for freedom,
the struggling worm who works
to move the heavy rocks that keep
him buried. And if I have a soul

today, I'll let it rest, a blooming
twig, a lazy blade of grass, a wilderness
of flowers staring skyward; think of
all the wildbirds in their nests
unencumbered by their knowledge.

Ciao Bella! - Sunny days are over...

My skin is sandpaper

Under your fingers

And when you make love with him

I lay here assessing thoughts of you

Rubbing my hands

Dreaming that I blow in your neck

Some really nasty thoughts

And I’m leaving


But you

Who do you dream of?

When you break a glass

And scream that you hate me

When you swear that it’s over

And then I still put the key

Under the rug

Since jumping out of the

Living room window

Is no more of my age?

- I’M leaving O.K.?

guimond - nov.6-07

glass hit me in the face

Lapses: videopoem

A videopoem bases on my poem "Lapses"

-text, voice, animation by Sara Mazzolini
-music by Mathieu Manca


The videopoem is around 5 minutes long.


Breakboned birthstunned

voice deflections
unhinge the doors of day

Thwarted lungs
clotted throat
i burst

to ellipse you


Averted runnels ramble underskin
submerging severing we
hurl at

bury breastbones
gush into
in veins of air
rush in pulses

These gusts unspare
your frozen skin


Circle of Fire Reading

Circle of Fire Reading
For Full Text and Word Map Click Here
COF was conceived and performed by Anne-Marie Culhane and Paul Conneally 13th October 2007

Do not fill the refusal to talk 2

Fantaisie Meurtrière - 1997


Convaincu de mon entière coopération

On m’escorte vers une salle anonyme, grise

Derrière la porte de laquelle

Je pèserai le pour et le contre

De la fantaisie de l’ici-bas

La chasse à l’homme étant résolue

J’envisage les conséquences

De ma réussite appelée un massacre

À la une des journaux

Bien qu’aucun témoin n’ait survécu

Mes empreintes sur l’arme du crime

Je vais tout avouer en bloc

Lors de l’impressionnante relecture

Des chefs d’accusation portés contre moi

On m’enlève les menottes

Puis ils sortent sans claquer la porte

Enfin seul

Je masse mes poignets

Las, fatigué mais serein

Syncope de dire aux poings

Fourrageant entre les verres de styromousse

Et des mégots écrasés sur la table

J’approche une feuille blanche, un stylo

Une mouche s’éloigne d’une chaise

Contemplatif je m’y assois

Ne peux plus nier

Tête renversée, les bras en croix

Je ne pense à rien, en admirant le plafond

Mon visage d’un coup sec se fronce

Mon esprit se contredit

Je pouffe de rire…

La chaise rebascule sur ses quatre pattes

Mes chaussures claquent contre le carrelage

Le léger ricanement m’émoustille

Car seuls mes aveux me séparent

De la dernière issue de secours

Si largement ouverte

Chose inattendue :

Les secondes passent tels de fins traits

À la lame de rasoir sur le torse

Je suis rechargé à bloc

Haussant les épaules, suivi d’un long soupir

Des larmes coulent sur mes joues

Refrénant ma joie, j’écris :



En caractères détachés

Dans le gras de la page

Résigné, le dos voûté

Armé de mon seul siège

J’éteins l’interrupteur sans ciller

Je me loge à gauche derrière la porte

Tapi contre le mur, j’inspire à tout rompre

Soulevant la chaise à bout de bras

Je hurle :


Seul dans le noir

D’une salle d’interrogatoire.

guimond - 1997