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

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

The poetic interview with Stu Watson is still in progress.