The room was full of people. A light stirring arose. The writer gazed absently before
himself. He was tired of being consulted like some oracle, when he had nothing to say. Stifled,
he regretted having come. He felt like a goldfish in a bowl. The first question startled him :
‘What are your thoughts about this epidemic that’s ravaging the world ?’
He shrugged his shoulders a little and didn’t respond. The question was repeated. The
writer kept silent. There were murmurs of disapproval among the gathering. Just now his
attention was drawn to a woman who looked at him attentively. Her eyes were of a blue that
reminded him of his mother’s eyes. Could it have been she who had brought her to him ? No,
probably not, but she was literally devouring him with her look.
More questions were asked of him. In particular these questions : ‘What is your latest
book about ?’ ‘Why have you called it, She is coming for me ?’
How much time had gone by ? It seemed to him the room was emptying little by little. He
couldn’t really care less.
Now the woman with blue eyes got up and headed toward him. Her stare at him was
insisting. They were alone now. Everybody had left. The writer arose mechanically. She took his
hand. He felt a kind of electrical pulse. He was struck by this stranger’s resemblance to his
mother. He was under the impression he was turning back into a little boy. ‘You’ve been waiting
for me for so long,’ she whispered to him with a tender smile.
The stranger guided him gently toward the exit. Nothing else mattered. Once they were
outside, he so wanted her to take him in her arms. And this she did.
He wondered where she was taking him. His mother had been dead for some ten years. In
his sixties now, the writer thought about her at times and wondered why the day ever came that
left him an orphan.
The woman with blue eyes looked at him again.
He couldn’t even feel himself dying.
Denis EMORINE
À celle qui viendra
À Jayant Dhupkar
La salle était pleine de monde. Un léger brouhaha s’éleva.L’écrivain regardait fixement devant lui, l’air absent. Il en avait assez qu’on le consulte comme un oracle alors qu’il n’avait rien à dire. Oppressé, il regretta d’être venu.Il se sentait comme un poisson rouge dans un bocal. La première question le fit sursauter :
« Que pensez-vous de cette épidémie qui s’abat sur le monde ?
Il haussa un peu les épaules et ne répondit pas. On répéta la question. L’écrivain garda le silence. Il y eut quelques murmures de désapprobation dans l’assistance. À ce moment-là, son attention fut attirée par une femme qui le regardait avec attention. Elle avait les yeux d’un bleu qui lui rappela ceux de sa mère. Était-ce elle qui l’avait sollicité ? Non, probablement pas,mais elle le dévorait littéralement du regard.
D’autres questions lui parvinrent. Notamment celles-ci : «De quoi parle votre dernier livre?Pourquoi ce titre: “À celle qui viendra”? »
Combien de temps avait passé ? Il lui sembla que la salle se vidait peu à peu. Ce qui le laissa indifférent.
À ce moment-là, la femme aux yeux bleus se leva en se dirigeant vers lui. Elle le fixait avec insistance.Ils étaient seuls à présent. Tout le monde était parti. L’écrivain se mit debout machinalement. Elle lui prit la main. Il ressentit une espèce de décharge électrique. La ressemblance de l’inconnue avec sa mère le frappa. il avait l’impression de redevenir un petit garçon. « Tu m’attendais depuis si longtemps….»,lui murmura-elle en effleurant sa joue. L’inconnue le guidait doucement vers la sortie. Plus rien n’avait d’importance. Une fois dehors,il eut très envie qu’elle le prenne dans ses bras ; ce qu’elle fit, d’ailleurs.
Il se demanda où elle l’emmenait. Sa mère était morte depuis une bonne dizaine d’années… À plus de soixante ans, l’écrivain y pensait parfois en se demandant pourquoi, un jour, il faut devenir orphelin.
air out your life
crispness in the air
leaves taking up space
on the ground
football weather
crack a window and
air out your life
these are the mornings
where a cup of coffee
becomes three
daydreams become
paint drying in the
shade
old angels bleeding
broken souls trying to relish
the final heartbeats of what
could have been
old demons laughing
like you ever thought this
would turn out differently
there never was a rainbow
a pot of gold or even a little
green suit
everything born has to die
and no one enjoys life
past their expiration date
even a life of eating shit
doesn't prepare you for
that taste
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
find ourselves in now
heaven is a woman
that squeezes tighter
and tells you to get
going
hell is when you
have to leave and
know forever is
slipping out of
your hands
and whatever we
find ourselves in
now is neither
perhaps that is
what hell truly
is
------------------------------------------------------------------------
the old lovers become ghosts
these nights where
the rain moves in
and the ache catches
you right before
you fall asleep
the old lovers
become ghosts
they don't haunt
as much as they
used to
they are simply
reminders of what
could have been
all the turns you
chose not to take
you can't dwell
on such things
it will only
paralyze you
the present is
enough horror
to begin with
-------------------------------------------------------------------
the courage to leap
i used to walk over
this bridge when i
was a child
i think i was eight
i had nightmares that
eventually turned to
dreams of jumping off
that bridge to my death
anytime i drive over
one now and i'm alone
that thought creeps
back in
and as tempting as it
really is, especially
during these days
i keep on driving
think of the other lucky
souls that had the courage
to leap
-------------------------------------------------------------------
why not
a lonely glass
of scotch
dusty springfield
leaking out of the
speakers
rain coming down
one of these nights
where the shotgun
in the corner licks
her lips and asks
why not
you see pen and
paper on your desk
been a few years
since you gave a
final note the good
old college try
and then
you remember
the trick to finding
pleasure in the pain
there's a reason you
always loved a black
woman
Life was such a wonder...
I was clueless as I lived the life of a loner
As I moved around to know why life is just that way,
A picture of someone flashed in my memory's rare ray
What was that?
The answer was like paying a VAT!
Moving through the thin and thick of life,
I realized the picture became clearer as I was navigating the direction of a wife.
The picture was when I met and fell in love with you, George
So, Its with joy I will walk alongside you in the aisle of the church
For you are the very answer to my clueless state
Having you beside me has been my positive fate
No longer a loner...for you are my companion
With you, life is no wonder
For, as champions, we conquer!
Fascinating
Very fascinating we labor so hard only to leave the fruits of it permanently
Very fascinating we are so carried away by the cares of this life that they leave us when we are no more
Very fascinating we pursue our dreams so much that only works out when we are fully asleep
Very fascinating we so run through pillar and post to make ends meet only to realize how parallel they are
Very fascinating we so do all in our powers to realize our ambitions only to see the pains manifest throughout our lifetime
Very fascinating we do what society tells us so well only to realize the scars left in us for life
Very fascinating we so live for others only to find out we wasted our years not living 'we'
In all, very fascinating we are so living the life bestowed on us only to have it taken away from us....someday
203-
Monogenesis or polygamy. Have
you ever used a craniometer. Phrenology
or Anatomy. Evolution or Creationism.
Algolagnic. Sexual arousal only when
pain is involved. Not 50 shades of grey
Masochism Lite. Nymphomaniac 2.
Swinburne’s Cannibal Club Catechism.
“Before the beginning of years/there came
the making of man.” The Swinburne Stomp
Revisited. Debauchery as a way of life.
An art form. Dilettantes need not apply.
204-
Welcome to the Percy Bysshe Shelley
Memorial Swim Meet. Won’t ya let me
take you on a sea cruise. The song. The
sentimental journey. The ship of fools.
Don’t forget the pig roast after. Don’t
forget to light my fire. Bring your own
skewers. Your ‘Smores. Your heart and
soul. You are my heart’s inspiration.
Barracuda. Alas, John Barleycorn must
die. Weep for Adonais. Elegy or prophecy.
Bring your own swimsuits. No nude bathing is
allowed. Swim the Hellespont at your own risk.
205-
Angel baby. Angel heart. Angel on my
shoulder. Angel eyes. Angel at my table.
Angel of repose (typo). Desolation angels.
Exterminating angel. Exterminating angels.
Hell’s angels. Michael the archangel. Angel
bravo. Angel the bus driver (ret.), Angel
Hernandez. Fallen angel. Teen angel.
Hierarchy of. Strange angels. Killer angels.
Hell’s angels on wheels. Abbott and Costello
meet the hell’s angels. Angel tits. Angelology.
Angels with dirty faces. Los Angeles Angels:
gear, cards, officially licensed everything,
www.fanatics.com/mlb/angels.
206-
You can get anything you want at.
Ophelia’s restaurant. Home of the house
special Revenge Burger. Best served cold.
I can’t believe it’s not meat. Counting
flowers on the wall. Ophelia’s daisies.
Her pansies. Rue. Violets. Fennel.
Columbine. Rosemary. For remembrance.
That don’t bother me at all. On the way
to the nunnery. Or cripple creek. Throwing
something off the Tallahatchie bridge.
Watching Captain Kangaroo. I loathed
that fucker. And Howdy Doody. Buffalo Bob.
Phonies. Scarred me for life. Was Ophelia
a virgin. What do you think.
207-
What happens to people who live inside
their phones. Dom DeLillo wrote. In
The Silence. Soap opera plot line or
reformatting of Poltergeist. The Conversation.
A wedding in hell with no cell service.
the 18th green outside of the reception in
Melancholia. The movie. Wagner and Despair.
The book and the movie. The world does end.
Literally. Metaphor or the future revealed.
Do we care. Who’s your provider.
208-
Is there such a thing as a flesh mob. Like
a flash mob only more intimate. Maybe
I just read my notes wrong. Scribbled as
they were in the dark. Bedeviled as I am
by autonomous drones. Rap tapping tapping
at my chamber door. Do space aliens need
car, home, motorcycle or life insurance.
My father was an insurance adjustor.
What about yours. Had to be high risk
area, red lined potential customers. Aliens
of all kinds. What are your insurance needs.
209-
This ain’t no disco. This ain’t no foolin’.
Death metal or ultra post industrial wasteland
rock. In God’s mosh pit. The laying on of
hands. Surf’s up. Strange days have found
us. The movie. Y2K+ 20. I can hardly wait.
P.J. Harvey or Juliette Lewis. No contest
really. Virtual reality or alternative facts.
The gravedigger’s lament. Burn baby, burn,
burn that mother down.
210-
“Ghosts point fingers.” According to Doon
Arbus. Caretaker of the images of Diane.
Her mother. “I apologize for the sight in my
eyes.” Susan Briante said. What you see is
what you get. Caveat emptor. A boy with a
hand grenade in Central Park. Not a terrorist.
Three hundred sixty five burning down the
house. Watching the days go by. A thing is
a phallic symbol if it’s longer than its wide.
“I,” like John Ashbery,” lose myself in
other’s dreams.
