Daniel Roy Connelly

Question 1

I am not drowning in waves of delta sleep,
or pulling myself through the streets
still half-asleep and begging for jumpers
for goalposts.

I am not catholic dreaming.

Are you crossed to your bed?
I try to sacrifice myself to the owls,
and the moths,
while I wait without grace
for the world to fade into espresso gold,
and bring my wife back from the terrors
whispering charms,
whispering safety,
whispering light.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 1

Q1: REPLY
BEGIN
You commence with what you are not.
This tells me things about you.
Looking at the options you must be pretty relieved.
You won’t get more than one crowd-catch in a lifetime, Aaron.
Don’t spill your pint for half the world to see.
To think we could have met in a pub for Guinness and chatted
cricket or even rugby and never have known the other
had compacted things to say about delicate subjects when alone.
I know what it is you’re talking about.
Like you, I get stuff done.
A really good way to bring your wife back is the change of season.
Trouble is, hate to break it, I don’t want to piss all over your Spring,
you seem a giver of alms who wouldn’t deserve it, but cherry blossoms
are laced with something nasty this year. Is there an emoji for that?
Sometimes I am crossed to my bed but for different reasons.
I know what it is you are talking about, we’ve all got holes in our buckets,
Aaron, it’s all right, fire away, tell us what you mean to say.
I hope my next response comes clean as this.
I also writhe inside a claw of sadness.

– Daniel Roy Connelly

Question 2

Look at the cracks in our family crest the dent in the shield, and the smirk on the lion’s face. I was fifteen when we played cricket at the resevoir, my younger brother hit the ball into oncoming traffic, and I think that story made his name shine a little – we were the kids your parents warned you about, swinging goat skulls and skateboards in the street. Our ancestors would have been proud had they stuck around long enough to help us scream hello into the sun.

My father’s past was always bound to stories of his father joining the IRA, or shanking people in Acton, or his violence violence violent friends. Ball to bat to traffic, an excuse to show that he could bash a guy’s brains in as part of a botched robbery if our demons needed him to. Could you unearth your darkest fears and swing them in the town centre if your family needed you to? Can you fight fire with fire for approval?

Our shadows were drawn in the back of a notepad inked in the tones of house fires.

I ran into traffic singing homecoming songs as I lost 1989 forever.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 2

BEGIN

A needle in the vein of nostalgia.

Don’t get stuck – my advice to you.

There be head-fucks.

Did I mention my grandfather was fishmonger to the Kray twins?

Our crest boasted three scimitars which is fine if you are a violent family. It fell on the cat more than once after a wall got punched. Those lazy summer evenings when we played hangman in the garden. That crunchy nose-nutting in year 10 from ‘Bloodbath’ Dawson. Just kids’ stuff really. Not organised yet not exactly, as per Bacon, what I’d call ‘wild justice’. A simple 16-year-old who needed to swing the swede as I was walking past. No rancour flaming in the gut for decades.

A proposito, fighting fire with fire has always left me tepid. It’s just, like, more fire, no? At what point do you declare a winner from the inferno? How can you tell whose flames are biggest? How do you separate the ashes out?

Asbestos. That’s where it’s at. Deadly as approval.

(The web page I am currently streaming cricket from offers a link to ‘7 mistakes people make while choosing a basketball’. Surely this should be ‘when’.)

My family has needed nothing from me in years. As for the deracination, the hauling to the surface of the rucksack of ruin, the pendulous parade of horrors, the HD quality of the darkness, the gawping remonstration from the few, the couldn’t give a monkey’s cunt from the many; daily out-in-the-open rituals where I come from, each and every one. You should visit.

I see the way through this and though I’m no expert I’d hazard it’s less Joe Pesci with a baseball bat and more trying to get the last grain of sugar out the packet with a fingernail because not many people have ever managed that. We’re different, as you’ll see. There now. Adieu, adieu, remember me.

– Daniel Roy Connelly

Question 3

Daniel,

What are we to do with flat Earthers, and Holocaust deniers, and illuminati speculators? Should we dangle them over the edge of the world, and watch as they step into the curve and continue to circumnavigate this globe? Or do we show them the remnants of hate and watch them stutter through invisible threads?

My father was a conspiracy theorist, he found hope in David Ick and swore that every shooting was a false flag. Blame the prime minister, not the shooter. Every story had to be a cover for something deeper, or something more malevolent – as if thirty children dying at the hands of a teenager’s rifle wasn’t dark enough, so there had to be an electoral scandal to hide behind. I always hoped he would read my report card and decide a ‘C’ in Maths was due to the rising of lizard people in schools, not because I wasted my time listening to Kanye’s All that Glitters in class. [but that would’ve meant he had read my report card].

Terrance Howard promises that this is the last century our children will be taught 1×1=1. Terrance Howard thinks Einstein and Tesla would lose their minds were they alive to hear of Terryology. Terrance Howard spends 17 hours a day proving that if one times one equals one that means two is of no value because one times itself has no effect. If we have one version of one Terrance Howard, we apparently have two.

And maybe that’s the trick.

Maybe Terry has managed to clone himself.

Maybe the lizard people did mark me down in Maths.

Maybe this planet drops off somewhere past Australia.

Maybe we’re just blind to all of this.

Though I doubt it.

Stay chill Daniel,

Aaron.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 3

BEGIN
Illuminati. A bit 1780s really,
when Xavier von Zwack was
second-in-command. And you don’t
fuck around with a name like that.

I’ll return to your questions further down the page.
Strictly speaking I’m a left to right no nonsense man,
blocks of text as if an asteroid storm

but this one’s had me flickering back
and forth from the Indian IPL, sixes,
Kanye and cheerleaders, setting me
unexpectedly
on a path to more conventional form.

That’s live commentary for you.

If only conspiracies pulled their weight,
Elvis as spied on Sunset Boulevard,
Lord Lucan taking tea at Traitor’s Gate,
or that whole ‘we conquered the moon?’ charade.

Conspiracy, old as Trojan horses,
in place to encase the mad online wrath
in the presses of the global shit-bath…
Where would we be without our rough sources?

I see the vertical multitudes –
for there be many nasty fuckers
we’d like to get rid of once and for all –
with rainbow balloons strung over their heads
expanding as they rise up to who
gives a shit where, far enough away
as outer hemispheres get.

I have a heart like everyone has a heart
and my heart wants all the dark hearts
to fuck off completely and irrevocably.
In space, they will meet by chance,
the holocaust deniers delighted to point out
at altitude to passing Jewish scientists the earth
is not flat, while the is she/isn’t he brigade
is there to keep space hatred oxygenated for all constituents, speculators inc.,
whose balloons might go up as well as down.

I owned a lizard I taught to count to 2
and who knew the world was round.
Paul was his name. One night Paul
and I discussed Terry and decided
to cut down a tad on the learning.
Next day, Paul packed his bags
and abandoned me, as have many others.

– Daniel Roy Connelly

Question 4

Live commentary is acceptable
……..in certain social situations
such as ordering complicated coffees
……..or buying your weight in vinyl records.
I didn’t see Elvis on Sunset Boulevard
……..but I’m pretty sure I saw Nikki Sixx
trying to siphon the sunlight into his veins.
……..I have a heart too, and it screams
for a beating heart beating a beating heart.
……..If you’re heart is so dark, Dan,
then why don’t you paint it in bright colours?
……..Give it some life. Tell it to fuck off
in the early hours when the reverb
……..is caressing your pillow a bit too much
for sleep.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 4

BEGIN

Have I not given enough
Lux in Tenerife to colour
the drolleries of a FUCK OFF DAY?

……..Sick of the effort, tbh, soft heart,
……..ran the brushes down to stubble
……..trying to get the different colours to stick.

…………….So I took my heart and tagged it instead.
…………….Overnight, indecipherable squirls
…………….covered every invisible inch of me.

……………………Dark core’s emblazoned now, pal,
……………………might not even be mine anymore,

…………………………..like when out of the blue
…………………………..you meet someone you really like
…………………………..and they tell you they like you too.
…………………………..You don’t see that every day.

………………………………….Tear into the tub of salsa.
………………………………….Knead the finest Roman dough.
………………………………….Cherish nonna’s smoked scamorza.
………………………………….Raise a glass of prosecco.

…………………………………………I’m just kidding with you. I’ll refrain.

Remember that hole in my bucket?……..It’s all that’s left.

Nothing will come of nothing…………………………………………………Speak again.

– 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

The poetic interview with Daniel Roy Connelly is in progress.

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