#1—
Suzanne WALSH
PRECIPICE
of an END
I wrote ‘Precipice of an end’ for PHONICA, and performed it with a soundtrack. In the centre of the text, at the point when something seems to be being ‘called up,’ I performed a vocalisation. The text is inspired by dozing through murder mysteries on tv, a kind of deconstructed murder mystery. The mystery has exploded out of the murder and into the reality of the text itself.
Take the flowers away for night-time
turn off all the lights, lock the doors
the wind is chattering in the land behind the dark
Through the walls someone waits, watches,
stretches their long lean muscles. I’ll be back later.
We hear you, we say, triumphant from the drains.
Knife in the sink. Getting later.
Even in those days I could work with minimal remains.
Now all my footsteps are bloody
the birds blink. Lights flicker in water, a shadow moves through it,
veiled, picks a flower, drifts unseen, and throws petals at him,
the way he likes it
light pours in under the door,
punch the pillow into your likeness, steam runs out.
Spilling over fabric, on the floor,
steam covers all until the memories hanging on the wall screech out of reach
Walking lanes late at night, dog on your arm,
lonely days and nights. Keys, keys, we have to wait.
Blind faith. Burning, calling, billowing. Raining in the calling
Where for God’s sake?
Bellowing and growling on the tracks.
Monstrous. I got mouths
I know exactly what you mean.
Get ready because there won’t be sleep tonight, winter, our chance,
day and night, nothing stronger than this pulse of time and light spinning
same flowers. Not wanted. Where could they have come from?
Anywhere
search along the tracks, never mind the hissing white heather.
Sink down, be afraid. It’s a good luck prayer I think, unless it’s a curse
don’t let me down. I’ve been ensuring that everything is secure outside.
Contacting them on a night like tonight. Why not? Why not indeed
The bell rings.
The clock strikes.
It comes at all hours, seeping through the walls, sapping time
up the stairs, quietly, in front of a red door
if there’s evil it’s in someone’s heart
never creep up on an old soldier
clocks, knocking, alright
I’m coming.
The smile of death.
I saw the bird on the roof, stargazing.
Did you have a good view from up there?
Did you hear anything?
I couldn’t get in anywhere else. There isn’t anywhere else
let us take our positions
come next to me if you’re nervous.
Are we all receptive?
Is anybody there?
Do you have a message?
I wasn’t stargazing, there was news of slaughter far away.
They went in too deep, I was their creature.
I was struck off.
It was between the pages, an answer to a problem
Time for you to be outside.
Now go. Shivering on the roof tops.
Drive like the wind. Beyond care. Taking all their time
you reconnected in the morning
but the gods still smiled. We needed help to prove it.
Something. Foxes teeth. What am I going to do now?
All the lights went out, I believe so
all bloodlessly young markless snow
not a smoke in the light
you remember circling back,
then discovered you couldn’t, last night,
explain your interest
turn off all the lights, lock the doors
the wind is chattering in the land behind the dark
Through the walls someone waits, watches,
stretches their long lean muscles. I’ll be back later.
We hear you, we say, triumphant from the drains.
Knife in the sink. Getting later.
Even in those days I could work with minimal remains.
Now all my footsteps are bloody
the birds blink. Lights flicker in water, a shadow moves through it,
veiled, picks a flower, drifts unseen, and throws petals at him,
the way he likes it
light pours in under the door,
punch the pillow into your likeness, steam runs out.
Spilling over fabric, on the floor,
steam covers all until the memories hanging on the wall screech out of reach
Walking lanes late at night, dog on your arm,
lonely days and nights. Keys, keys, we have to wait.
Blind faith. Burning, calling, billowing. Raining in the calling
Where for God’s sake?
Bellowing and growling on the tracks.
Monstrous. I got mouths
I know exactly what you mean.
Get ready because there won’t be sleep tonight, winter, our chance,
day and night, nothing stronger than this pulse of time and light spinning
same flowers. Not wanted. Where could they have come from?
Anywhere
search along the tracks, never mind the hissing white heather.
Sink down, be afraid. It’s a good luck prayer I think, unless it’s a curse
don’t let me down. I’ve been ensuring that everything is secure outside.
Contacting them on a night like tonight. Why not? Why not indeed
The bell rings.
The clock strikes.
It comes at all hours, seeping through the walls, sapping time
up the stairs, quietly, in front of a red door
if there’s evil it’s in someone’s heart
never creep up on an old soldier
clocks, knocking, alright
I’m coming.
The smile of death.
I saw the bird on the roof, stargazing.
Did you have a good view from up there?
Did you hear anything?
I couldn’t get in anywhere else. There isn’t anywhere else
let us take our positions
come next to me if you’re nervous.
Are we all receptive?
Is anybody there?
Do you have a message?
I wasn’t stargazing, there was news of slaughter far away.
They went in too deep, I was their creature.
I was struck off.
It was between the pages, an answer to a problem
Time for you to be outside.
Now go. Shivering on the roof tops.
Drive like the wind. Beyond care. Taking all their time
you reconnected in the morning
but the gods still smiled. We needed help to prove it.
Something. Foxes teeth. What am I going to do now?
All the lights went out, I believe so
all bloodlessly young markless snow
not a smoke in the light
you remember circling back,
then discovered you couldn’t, last night,
explain your interest
Suzanne WALSH is a writer and artist based in Dublin, working with text, performance, and audio. This includes performative lectures, recitations, and recordings. They’ve published essays, reviews and poetry in publications including Fallowmedia, gorse journal, and Winter Papers, as well as writing commissioned texts for galleries and other art institutions. They are currently working on a longer writing project.