Scott: groaning wood stump with eyes

That is a very freaky rare illness, Bob says. None of those long cells

will contract any longer, no motion, they don’t respond to any bells,

but imagine: he – Bob stages a lavish display – is aware! A wood

stump with eyes and groans: Scott, 44, The Rigid Man. Bob talks: he could

not move a muscle, but he – remember previous display? – knows

all what happens around. So here he dwells!


The shake mix – smells of roses – runs out the mouth, the jaws got stuck,

as they would be rocks in the ocean. That is hereditary – Bob is a hammock.

It doesn’t necessary imply the sons will inherit that, but it is only one out

of two children escaping that, keeps going Bob, starting to work out

the lower and the upper jaw, forcing them to join together, and they

eventually do, two broken pistons causing havoc.


There is one family here in Phoenix, one in France, and one in China – chat

goes further – as known by now, having that. There is of course no cure for that, Bob enunciates. The eyes have tears and they close. A flower has opened

the door, like wadding a bullet in a gun. Shut up! The girl has a diamond

instead of voice and let fall the flower on her father’s chest. And you are…

She’s probably fourteen and blossoms thereat.


Her eyes are like a journey in the pitch dark. She is a wayfaring rose, we reach hands. Fingers or rods of roses? The thorns must have left wounds on each

long cell. Shut up, Bob, leave now. A poet, you are? One of those! A poet rips

his soul for not having… What words are coming from her pulpy lips?

A cloud replenishes the sky. The tempest speaks near the adult care home.

Answer me this, she yells, preparing to impeach.


A poem is nothing but a giant of sand. Is there a God? Why would her parents

have a child? Abortion’s permitted, euthanasia’s declined! Are there warrants?

Everything’s meaningless. Enough: the mother in the rear, married widow,

sobs. Scott groans and groans and groans. A hoot breaks the window.

The helplessness, the loneliness, the sadness, the fear embrace the room:

fluid shivers or brittle tears come in torrents.

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