Question & Answer 8 – Daniel Roy Connelly

Question 8

Maybe you’d be fucked, Daniel,
but I’d be fucking furious if I had to share
a seat next to Vin Diesel’s ego in a passing
shower on the edge of England and Scotland.

When I talk to flowers, I speak only of
bougainvillea and begonia, flowers I hear
hum the morning in check when the death
watch beetle has ground itself into cinnamon.

If all roads bleed to Rome, what shape do the
roads in Rome take? I’ve got veins in the back
of my hand with more dexterity than road maps.
Tulips on each knuckle as melted isotopes.

We live large and die in outer space, counting
the miles to Saturn’s outer rings and watching
in wasted splendour as we pass Anthe and realise
the whole thing is just a big dusty mess.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 8
[A8 is the Gate]

Trouble is dust settles
for less than it should,
might be insecurity or
a liquorice-flavoured
wood that went round
back in black & white.

Diesel on Hadrian’s Wall,
there’s a line to punch out
the lights of mid-sentence.
Daffodils are good for chat
and taste like lettuce, let us

pray:

Dear Rome,
your roads are shit
we’ve had some fine minds working
to metaphorise your randomness but shit
is the absolute best I can come up with for it

Anthe & Cleopatra,
grab a load of those
satellites colliding,
we won’t be left
wondering, no sir.

Bit frivolous this
I know. Summer
licks the heat of
mongering dry,

try this before out, bro

If I’m troubled by every folding of your skirt / am I guilty of every
male-inflicted hurt? is a line Paddy McAloon beat me to thirty years
ago, when I say beat me to, I mean different ballpark, his arena
grandiloquent, touched in the bleachers by glittery numinousness,
always loved sprouts, different sport altogether if you like, mine’s
more an empty squash court, ha! seeing Paddy and me in competition.

– Daniel Roy Connelly

Question & Answer 2 – Kimmy Walters

Question 2

I’ve been told ghosts are cliché –
and I hear them squeaking messages into
steam on the windows.
It’s one of those days, Kimmy,
where I brew everybody’s coffee – while
watching all those photos
blend into a crema on the surface of my scars.
I want to watch him burn
an arc of disappointment
across the – false smile of my father’s fake teeth grin.
How do you leave
notes – Ouija – across
the depth of wasted genetics?
The nuances are in place, an owl in the corner
of a darkened room
and a bluebird in the heart of some junkie poet.
Yes, ghosts are cliché, but
at least mine have
the decency to haunt me in the daylight.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 2

I’m drinking coffee
that someone else made

because I like to be taken care of
for about 20 minutes at a time

and because lately I have struggled to
make anything for myself…
you might know this,
because it’s been months…

on the counter are
two ingredients requiring
only heat to become a meal,
but I am lying down

and they will stay ingredients forever

my friend died but she’s
far too practical to become
a ghost

which I admire in a certain way

I tried to imagine her as an old woman
her hair was gray
but the roots were dark

and she was smiling down at me
with something that looked like pity

– Kimmy Walters

Question & Answer 2 – Dean Rhetoric

Question 2

In reverse an autopsy is just
yspotua na
and that’s all there is to it
whether in D-Minor
or the miner
stood in the centre of the town
I grew up in
arms folded
born of the working class
fears we were all taught
to embody

Did I ever tell you how my dad
used to send me to school
telling me to tell my teachers
that Thatcher was the best thing
to ever happen to this country
and now all my school years
are tainted
with this weird
hatred I was made to embody
with a statement that feels
damp and hollow
like the stare
that evil iron lady
bore into the centre of my dad’s skull

This was before
he obsessed with David Icke
and lizard people
and angles to hit towers at
and bullet holes in truck doors
and climate change denial
and all of these other conspiracies
he force fed us until we spewed it all up
in front of the class
and our educators
as if some zombie spouting
hate
and begging for anybody
to point us in the right direction

My teacher told me that sometimes
fathers need a mouthpiece
and I should research his words
and now I’m not sure who I’m angrier at
my father
or Thatcher
but I know I don’t have a nice thing to say about either.

– Aaron Kent

***************************************************************************

Answer 2

FILE – 51-

{illumin@ti f@ther @utopsy}

< ? P.F. Version”2.0″ encoding”R.I.P._I.Q.” ? >
< ! – – HP Search V2 30+1+1 http://www.hereditaryblackeyeview.com – – >

<report>

<footage summary>

{a birth//a kidney bean with eyes//a sack of flour with a heartbeat}
{a death//a house//a body//looks content//when no one is inside}
{a child – an interruption – forever}

<results>

<file size O -01- In this American remake of his sleep
<file size U -02- paranoia leaves a basket at the front door
<file size T -03- a baby hurricane, cooing softly inside,

<file size C -04- a weaponised love song – fragile – irresponsibly held.
<file size O -05- Attached to the basket is a note: You were screaming
<file size M -06- and scratching through dreams again, grinding your
<file size E -07- lungs against the bedpost. Please find enclosed your

<file size T -08- carbon dioxide lovechild. [MONTAGE]:
<file size H-09- He falls asleep on a train and the baby starts to
<file size E-10- scream, limbs spinning wildly throughout the carriage.

<file size B -11- Have you ever seen an unpredictable infant of weather
<file size O -12- phenomenon shitting its pants? Begging to be changed,
<file size N -13- under the crippling migraine of minimum wage studio lights?
<file size E -14- Masculinity is a frightened child’s diagram of a throat
<file size S -15- pretending to be a map of the universe.

i have died in worse places than this I have died in worse places than this I have died in worse places than this i have died in worse places than this i have died in worse places

<installation – complete – copy diagram at own risk>

***************************************************************************

– Dean Rhetoric

Question & Answer 1 – Tom Jenks

Question 1

There were ley-lines
arching from where we stood
to where we were

– from birth to a
quicker deterioration of
cocaine – have you

pierced the ego of
your enemy and found
yourself in the waste? –

I knew ways to avoid that
deviated septum, to nod at stories
set in Liverpool – how to

kill boredom killing
reality – snorting
yourself to an early grave

– Aaron Kent

Answer 1

the ley line passes over the Mersey
between blue and black recycling bins
the druids in their silver shoes
deep in confidential waste
the tall one works in Quality Save
the middle one is a snookerer
but the little one he is the wise one
you know it by his ceramic gong
he fix your bendy nose with magick
and give you advice with a sugared waffle:

“keep your friends close
but your enemies in Costa”

– Tom Jenks

Question & Answer 3 – Lavinia Singer

Question 3

I’ve buried heaven
in your house.
Can you find it
amongst the webs?

I’ve lost my watch
near the river,
I hope it eventually
reaches the ocean.

I’ve grown old and broken
on my front porch
and read poetry
to demonic woodlice.

I’ve made vegetarian
fry-ups for my wife
and given ten percent
to our future.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 3

[Third quarter
Saturday 17 June 2017, 12.32]

I found it hanging, flared,
a hearing trumpet angled from the heavens.
Spineless white.

Like the bullet ant
or the dream root from the river
(divine within)

it is more than ornament.
For unruly children and buried wives,
one week given to grow.

Pressed, chewed – so sweet!
But to eat this hollow food is to leave
all hope for home.

– Lavinia Singer

Question & Answer 1 – S. J. Fowler

Question 1

Do you remember the photograph
you took of us all on the stairs in the Poly?
I’ve got the first flurry of winter
pressed against our backs

and a flash of a camera
slapping me across the face.
You pushed everyone above the bar
and I performed through the night

wondering when I got so unsightly.
I can’t watch the clip of that night
for fear that I’ll see the hunchback
of Notre Dame looking back –

broken eyed like two piss holes
in the snow.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 1

There was no night / The night you refer to was not a night / Nor was it possible as the opposite of a day / It seems your memory has more than it needs

There was no bar / The bar you refer to was not an object made in the world / Nor is it possible to remember / As Cornwall is gone, washed out into the water

There is no video that you haven’t seen / Can’t bring yourself to watch / For if you haven’t seen it Aaron …

Cornwall never was a place / A poem recalls a place / And kills it /:

You’ve lifted feelings with your actions / Not your poems.

(When I refer to you / I refer to myself)

– S. J. Fowler

Question & Answer 3 – Simon Barraclough

Question 3

I think I’m both sinking and waving,
not dying for help – just looking for the final
snapshot
of my last hurrah. [Fifteen thousand
seven hundred
fifty
psi]. I sailed on trident while scrawling

protests in the rear view mirror [remain
victorious] of a lost boat, [remain triomphant]
aim aft, aim aft, aim emm ess one.

I am only on the thunder road
because of the nuclear waste
in my veins.

Sometimes I remember being
fathoms deep, and I feel lost
between acceptance and rejection. Do you
still cling to former lives? Hold missiles
to the scars?

[Submariners, we’re promised
daughters,
told it’s the way the life
affects us. I don’t know why I still cling to the notion
that I’m part of the club – one of the dolphins –
when I was rejected with such hate.]

– Aaron Kent

Answer 3

‘I ought to learn how to sail, the Hemulen thought. But I’ve never got enough time.’
Moominvalley in November, Tove Jansson

I’m competent of crew, deft of clove hitch
and nimblejack with a midnight bowline;
can read a tidal chart, know where to moor
and when to yank the fenders, flee the dock,
duck the beam and jury-rig a rudder.

Or was, before this dry-docking.
Now I gnaw my Sun-cracked lips,
tilt sockets scoured by stars and seagull beaks,
flense my flesh for my daily bread,
jab my shrunken, salt-cured biltongue
between the fraying shells of my teeth.

My words fall to the strand,
are carried off by hermit crabs
who skitter them this way and that
over the unread page of the shore;
little stories even they can’t read.

– Simon Barraclough