Question & Answer 5 – Daniel Roy Connelly

Question 5

There was a hole in my bucket
but I filled it with Damien Hirst’s
giant capsules, and Francis Bacon’s
refusal to be knighted.

……..Let’s not age ourselves.
……..Let’s let our art age us.

Do you believe every invisible inch
of you is really covered, or is that
just a metaphor for the way we let
each other read our skin?

……..This work is my book
for you, Daniel, to devour.

Keep your fuck off days, spread them
like old tools across the garage,
and set the chalk paint alight. At least
we’ll then have a canvas.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 5

[The Comeback]

{May rain and a ventino chill tonight, masculine-
looking clouds, taught, razor-edged in the city
with an excess of semen sitting in its ballparks.

…thought I’d ease you in via the comfy chair, Aaron.}

Dear Heart,

accepting your work – I do, I do – with open arms would be more decorous
than to devour, more Daniel I suppose, I’d be the last to ask, oh, no-one did.

There’s a deuce I need off my chest,
I hope you don’t mind being exploited thus:

(a) I walked past a student who said, ‘I like my cuisine like my soirées … haute.’

(2) Can you think of something petionable because I feel one coming on? I hate isolation. ……………………………………………………………………….There

—————-Before I forget,
Officer Fukowski dropped by.
I told her not tonight.

I do believe every invisible inch of me
is really covered with a metaphor
to be read whatever the weather
as inkings of polysemous seeds,
a Body Works of exogenous ambiguities.
I doubt I’m alone. What would I know
about wanting to shove Damien Hirst’s skull up his un-jelloed arse,
you ask?
By God I think it would give the country the fillip it so badly needs.

Now there’s a metaphor that’s been waiting to detach
itself from my unruly innards which are now plain tripe.

{I have opened a folder, Dialogical Warfare,
which houses our, OUR, banditry of
epistolartarianistemisations marching
like penguins or ants or wobbly armies
towards a brighter day or possibly a pamphlet.

Actually, this littler last bit isn’t true,
I’m only Fukowski with your head}

– Daniel Roy Connelly