Question & Answer 4 – Stu Watson

Question 4

I’ve seen that reptilian hand dance in the
cold of the shower, when I’m drying myself
and wasting the air with the toxicity of
interruptions. The taps cold and burning,
the reasons to exist still forming in the marsh
at the back of the room. All the walls are just
excuses to leave the city now, Stu, and I don’t
know whether to take a train or walk. Both
are great ways to see the countryside, but
it’s really a question of quality over quantity.
Have you scaled the garden wall yet? Found your
neighbours hive and stole all their honey?
The sickness of my voice makes me shudder,
especially when I try to record the mess I’ve
made of everything and realise life is ok.

At best.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 4

Life is at best okay when edged
On either side by what was once
The possible so fast become
The comforting lineaments of doom,
The cracks that rise out of the earth
To shock and stun, allow for us
To witness this apocalypse of fact
Unharnessed and alighting once again—

It’s like the difference between a lawyer
And a barrister, we register the present
Through a different lens
On account of our furious knowledge
Of how close so many other worlds were
And are, though may not be as things
Continue to advance, in fact spread out
Break up in coldly distances of time.

It all sinks in across the gap
The train leaps over reaching out
Expanding tracks divert our course
But still we cannot even see
The open road, that lonely tree
There standing in the periphery
Of our so rapid flight for and against
The currents of the denser dreaming force.

– Stu Watson


Question & Answer 3 – Stu Watson

Question 3

As a teenager I used to think
of how to get home quickest
without being hit by a baseball
bat upisde my head;

but now I think of how
to get home the quickest
so I can see the glow and glory
of my wife and our (her) bump.

Don’t worry about the hive, Stu,
worry about the nectar,
the life blood & all that sweet,
disgusting, gross honey.

How did we let ourselves
become so sickly sweet?
How do we draw lines in the mud
with sticks we broke bones on?

My reflection carries weights
and arms itself with shoes
in the fear that my hometown
will cremate me and forget

to tie my laces.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 3

I once imagined that I’d seen
a scaly green reptilian hand
emerge from out the sodden marsh
sunk in beside my family’s land

I told a friend that we could catch
this creature and destroy it there
a reverie then gripping me
reality peeling into air

and I can still see his wide eyes
his baffled look of pure belief
and feel the power in my lie
that power granting not relief

but guilt, awareness that a shift
in tone can swing a person so
as to obscure the truth in mists
that veil all that they know

for me this is the honey of the hive
and also still the stick that swings against
the hive and cracks its brittle muddy walls
the lie is lastly bee eyes gasping
as the queen drops down and falls

so something rhizomatic, mixed
I find when what we want is pure
and unadulterated truth;
but I guess we’ll take it, why not, sure,
lest we from that pure truth go poor

– Stu Watson

Question & Answer 2 – Stu Watson

Question 2

I could pull a cart with balloon strings
attached to three thousand flies,
and live in the back as a static memory
of all of God’s failed jokes.

Do you ever feel like your heartbeat
is always the lowest common denominator?
I salt the numbness with the infinite sun
and the cancerous growth on the edge

of my shadow, reading the dreams
of Murakami’s broken unicorn skulls.
Every day from July I will fight the robots
who plan to steal my daughter in endless dreams.

I could pull a cart with balloon strings
and a few dozens owls – but what good
would that do to stop me from staring at the ground
from the edge of a Spanish balcony?

– Aaron Kent

Answer 2

As a teenager I used to think
so frequently of crowds of bats
assuming on synchronic wing
that laughing shape, a human face;

but now I think instead to hear
fine rhythms cut in air by wings
and from that score to force a voice
a noiseless signal which will sing

of maudlin things like Henchard there
upon the bridge just looking down
infamy spread across the town
just staring at his reflection when

appears as if on cue an effigy of him—
what I would not give to be
a swarm of bees or locusts then
to witness that strange fictive man

confronted with the image of his sin—
how might hive-minded hearers turn
the moral of his story round
within the natter of their teeming brains?

– Stu Watson

Question & Answer 1 – Stu Watson

Question 1

There are two flies
perpendicular to each other
in the crema on this espresso
and each is telling sweet lies
in the form of riddles.

Parallel universe theory
dictates that both flies
are in a different drink
perhaps soup or water
in a different world…

…and perhaps you and I,
Stu, are applying
a different sheen to the surface
of our language
and coating it in Magyar

or German or Arabic.
Am I the result of my language
or vice versa? Are there two
flies, not sailors,
because an English joke demands?

A barista brings a coffee over,
‘excuse me, sir, what are these
sailors doing in my drink?’
‘Praying for a God
who doesn’t exist, or so it seems.’

– Aaron Kent

Answer 1

If one is Descartes’ fly,
set down upon a ceiling grid,

and the other is Hugo’s
ecstatic memory of God

the each, one can suppose,
would rather not be pinned

whether nailed down fast before the eye
or lifted toward futurity.

But what one knows
of flies of course colludes

and frames the answers we might beg
of them, unspeaking in their flyness,

stayed quietly like a Wittgensteinian lioness
content to be but in the dryness,

content to feel the warmth
off its rubbed together leg.

– Stu Watson