ADRAMELECH’S MONOLOGUE (Le Monologue d’Adramélech)

de Guy Bennett

Seeing Eye Books, États-Unis, Los Angeles, 2004

américaine de Guy Bennett
Eye Books, États-Unis, Los Angeles, 2004

In dire straits, Adramelech grips the prop on the bliss engine’s
drive wheel and gives it a spin. His monologue is massive. Get to
it !

Sufferin’sycophant ! Sufferin’sulfurous supine simian
syllogist ! The Adramelech’s toil’s hit its peak. Adramelech !...
Sire ? I made you of clay. And I go where ? To shelter’neath
your splint’ry coat and gnaw your soon-sluiced stump. Hail
yes, I’m there lickety-split. Si I says to the guy who’d
ogle me through spy-like specs. Nine fourths of our lives wasted
in inane hours of stanzas, staces, comings and goings ! We lift our
arms your head falls off. Ah the disappointment of my life’s
voyage with its lame stations ! My head’s too triangular, not
round enough for my taste : my arms are good, not long enough though
and eight short of ten. Adrameon, Ablamelion, Ablamelech, shut up
or step up, but not more words ! Marl to my pickaxe, gloss to my
heals ! We’s one thousand below, a handful holds down the fort.
They’s there in their abode. Their eyes can’t see us
but we can see us there they can’t. quiet Albert Bellows,
crawl quiet, lift your head and give ass ! Adrameluce. Watch your
mug, you old retorter, it’ll spring from my head held high,
the talker, gush from my hip, slip from the grave and nip at your
ears !