The Beautiful Agony Of Blaise Cendras by Karl Parkinson (Text and Audio)

 The Beautiful Agony Of Blaise Cendras

At the scorching words of Blaise Cendras,

Henry Miller clasps hands

to face and says

“Oh no….no, he didn’t write that?”

The beautiful agony, too much.

In a World War 1 pile, Blaise’ right arm

dangling and spurting,

his writer’s voice said

Get the fuck up, right now.

With working arm, Blaise slid out his pistol

raised it and clicked,

cleared the dead

and dying

as he marched to the Doc and the nurse, and said

I’m next or I shoot you all dead.

The Docs, realising -shells rising and declining

in the background like whaletalk in a minefield,

flares like six suns in the night-

just what

they were dealing with,

hurriedly hacked off

the arm,

and gave teeth-gritting Blaise all their morphine and whiskey.

Headhunters chased him all over.

He smoked in his sleep,

wrote six novels with one hand on an old typewriter.

Death came again to undo the proud living Blaise.

Blaise spoke to the doc and the nurse

No drugs;

give me death

undiluted.

Blasie Cendras

was a writer.

Are you?

Karl Parkinson

This poem was first published in The Stinging Fly. 

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