Pelléas et Mélisande

That night la Pelléas et Mélisande was playing at the firehouse, a one-time showing put on by the Concha Bros. Opera company owned and operated by Horacio and Roberto, brothers Antae and Agape preferring the loom business to opera. Across the street from the firehouse sat the legless man, his arms crossed over his chest wheezing. ‘--Concha’s should keep their whoring to themselves… all that stink and pale skin’. Having once bedded a putas diva with a leghorn stump (that made his own look like fine upstanding pegs) he had bad memories of straddle-backs and beans, the puta diva never once staying still long enough to make fair game of her.

The thought of her singing brought tears to his eyes. They drank tic-tac under a black opium sky, los putas diva saying it’d make him stiff as whiplash and kill the worms in his stool. The Concha brothers bought whores’ gloves from a man with a fat wife and three unsightly daughters. ‘--no not that one’ whispered the oldest unsightly sister. ‘--da’ll have a conniption if he sees you dressed like that’. ‘--da’s got a boxful of ladies gloves and no one says spit about that ’. Jeju Cheju-do and his cousin Ran Shou Tan live in a ramshackle hut behind the firehouse with two dogs and a courting pig they use to lure women to their hut, the pig sticking its corkscrew tail in the air and twirling it like a propeller.

The Cceres brothers and the Extremadura brothers are in cahoots with the Bridgwater brothers and the Bekkevoort brothers, who are in cahoots with the Brabant brothers and the Wolverhampton brothers, none of whom have anything to do with this story, for the moment at least… moments being what they are, incalculable and varying, this could be an oversight on behalf of the author, who is in cahoots with everyone except the harridan’s sister who is in cahoots with herself.

Croydon of Croydon stole a box of lace from Puerto Del Rosario, the sole proprietor of the Canarias Lace and Glove Co. Croydon (of Croydon) acquired a fancy for women’s gloves and lace from his da, who fancied whores and Cutters’ Gin. Pinchbeck, his ear pressed against the storefront window, listened, ‘…I say then…’ continued Rancho, ‘…that in a village of Estremadura there was a goat-shepherd--that is to say, one who tended goats--which shepherd or goatherd, as my story goes, was called Lope Ruiz, and this Lope Ruiz was in love with a shepherdess called Torralva, which shepherdess called Torralva was the daughter of a rich brazier, and this rich glazier…’. * And so the day went, the man in the hat making a fine mess of an otherwise okay to middling fine day.

* Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote

Marfeast Lickplate

On a tattered sheet of foals-cap, written in bright blue and yellow ink (the Witness, some might surmise) was the following, “...by cross multiplication of reverses of fortune, from which these supports protected him, and by elimination of all positive values to a negligible negative irrational unreal quantity… Successively, in descending helotic order: Poverty: that of the outdoor hawker of imitation jewellery, the dun for the recovery of bad and doubtful debts, the poor rate and deputy cess collector. Mendicancy: that of the fraudulent bankrupt with negligible assets paying 1s. 4d. in the pound, sandwichman, distributor of throwaways, nocturnal vagrant, insinuating sycophant, maimed sailor, blind stripling, superannuated bailiffs man, marfeast, lickplate, spoilsport, pickthank, eccentric public laughingstock seated on bench of public park under discarded perforated umbrella. Destitution: the inmate of Old Man's House (Royal Hospital) Kilmainham, the inmate of Simpson's Hospital for reduced but respectable men permanently disabled by gout or want of sight. Nadir of misery: the aged impotent disfranchised ratesupported moribund lunatic pauper”[1].

Not quite fathoming what it was he was privy to reading, the man in the hat threw the tattered piece of foals-cap into the next to nearest dustbin, shaking the dew off his once nimble fingers. ‘--strange indeed these markings, and in such bright blues and yellows’ he said to himself, as no one was within hearing sight, and even had there been he wouldn’t have dare change a vowel or constantan, words being treasures bequeathed to few. On the off-side that someone might be within earshot, which indeed might be the case as others might be out and about on such a delightfully sunshiny morning, he corrected his overbite and spoke polysyllabically, applying emphasis on uncommon words and turns of phrase; many of which he used sparingly but used just the same.

‘--I’m a feared this might be the last one…’ said the man in the hat stilly. ‘--I cannot, nor shall I, never say yes again, never again!’ Applying a small turn of pressure on his good leg he turned in the direction of the Waymart, and there, sitting abutted the shopping carts eavesdropping was the harridan’s sister, her hair done up in posies, a bow curling under her chin and around the cord of her fair neck.

Across from the harridan’s sister he espied the lams man (he sometimes called the alms man the lams man, in keeping with his desire to make old things seem new) figuring out his day’s take, his alms cap laying flat on the sideways to the left of him. Thinking he might say something untoward, as he had incurred many a person’s ire with his untoward advances, he thought the better of it and sat on the palms of his hands, making himself seem taller than he actually was. ‘--days such as these seem to go on and on… forever’ he belayed to himself, as those people who had been out and about tending to their daily routine or looking for scavenging, had either left or gone somewhere other than where he was, sitting on the palms of hands seeming taller than he actually was, just a soupçon taller, but taller just the same. Written over the headboard, where his wife’s harried head made slapping noises, was Život s hvězdou, and beneath that Putas Grandees’, both written in pencil and black ink.
[1] James Joyce, Ulysses

Curitiba Parana - Fistfighter

Having not given it a second sober thought, as sober thoughts, whether striking at the core of the issue or simply striking the surface, were a waste of time... anyhow sober thinking was highly overstated.

The publican bleats, reckoning ‘--last call, ye weary cunts ye’. Having witnessed little that day the Witness packed up his ink-trunk and headed for home, a coil of commode tissue heeled to the soul of his shoe, sad cunt. ‘--I said last call, ye fucking cunts …and I’m meaning it, ye I am!’ Across from the bar, seemingly unaware of the publican’s order, sat Curitiba Parana, fist-fighter and regular at the los Bariloche de Tachira San Cristbal, twirling the tips of his great black moustache. ‘--sir I have asked you twice, now please lave!’ said the publican firmly. Turning, his great black moustache curling upwards, Curitiba Parana said ‘--I am a clean man, I assure you that dear sir, now fuck off’. At this the publican, the veins in his forehead throbbing, stepped out from behind the bar, and elbowing his way past pub vagrants and travelers stood squarely in front of Curitiba Parana, his fists clenched into doughy balls (from one too many punch-ups with the unseemly customers), ‘--listen hear ye cunt, I’m a fair man, with God as me witness, but when I says its closing time ITS CLOSING TIME!’ puffing out his chest, the publican added ‘--now kindly git your arse off my seat, ye cunt’.

Endgame - Beckett

Los Bariloche de Tachira San Cristbal

Where the mouth of the great river spills into the coal-black sea, nestled away in a Dantean paradisio, sits the Saint Edmunds Nunnery, the Sisters of the Annunciation tending the Huguenots gardens left despoiled and fallow in the eighteen hundreds. Not far off, no further than the crow flies, los prostitutas de Bariloche de Tachira San Cristbal lure man and beast to their watery death. If one looks hard enough one can see wax corks floating like shrunken jellyfish in the waters surrounding los Bariloche de Tachira San Cristbal; a warning to man and beast that beauty and death are often times indistinguishable. ‘--utter nonsense!’ cried the Witness, ‘--the Huguenots never dared set foot anywhere near the Saint Edmunds Nunnery’. His pique serving to enflame the Witness, setting him off on an angry diatribe, Dejesus sat back and listened, his ears stopped with corked wax.

The Zadar bros. cobble Arco Orthopedic Slippers from the boot of their lorry; the eldest brother Zagrebacka, known for his temper and low values, commanding brothers Staden and Kobenhavn, each of whom have the wit of a seven year-old. The Holland bros. of Wicklow convene behind the Bray pump-house next to a billboard for the Monument Creamery, renown for its epic cream and assorted dairy products. The Keen bros., originally from Copenhagen but now running a vast tinned smelts empire from an outpost a stone’s throw from the Los Cipolletti bros. of Rio Negro who own and operate a casa putas with de Bariloche sisters, the eldest sister having a crush on Kobenhavn, regardless of his slow wittedness and unkempt appearance, having little patience for lollygaggers and racketeers, the brothers themselves having been raised by two such cunts.

Cats Laying Siege to Dogs

Thinking back over the last few days of his life, days spent either thinking about hats, the feel of tanned leather, like calf’s tongue yet supplier, and brushed felt, hatbands made from ostrich feathers and wren’s feet, or purchasing a hat, which he did without thought, as care for one’s head was of the utmost importance, he came to the realization that he had accomplished very little except dream about hats, a preoccupation that occupied much of his time----an avocation or obsession, some might suggest----either way he had to start putting more effort into other things, like thinking about where the missing whore’s glove might be, which given the manner of its vanishing and value, at least to those with more shortcomings than virtues, would take a great deal of thinking, or figuring out ways to malign the Witness, who’s shenanigans were becoming an ongoing concern, not only for he, but for Dejesus and the harridan’s sister too, or simply trying to dissuade himself from fixating on hats, which would free up more time than he had things to think about. Having decided on making a change in his habits the next day, following his morning walk, he donned his best fedora, the one with the satin hatband and rosebush stickpin, and left for the day, forgoing any further thought on the subject, which given his slow-wit and demure affectation would not be a difficult at all, as long as he stayed the line and toed forward, which he did, unremittingly.

He’d seen this before: cats laying siege to dogs, crows tightrope walking the wire awaiting the next opportunity to lay siege to an unsuspecting swineherd. In no way, at least none that he could think of, did this matter, as in the end everything would find its rightful place, siege or besieged, it mattered very little which, among the rabble and stink of this most imperfect world. ‘--tomorrow I will buy a new hat’, he said to himself, ‘--one softer than a calf’s tongue with an imposing brim’. Off in the far to middling distance, crouched behind a thicket of Fichus trees, stood two dogmen; the littlest and the middling to littlest. In the littlest dogman’s hand the man in the hat could barely make out, as the sky was dimming, the clouds having come home to roost, a grayish green object spackled with brine and mud. Thinking that he’d seen this slithery green bespackled object before, perched on the balustrade that circumnavigates the aqueduct or in the alleyway behind the Waymart, he put his hand to his brow as if he were giving a salute, and peered straining at the object, his forehead rumpled like a schoolboy’s badly done homework.

Salt tempered Bellies

Looking over the way, past the cod factory where the women slit salt-tempered bellies, the scales flaking onto their blue coveralls, beyond the one-mile fence beyond, he saw a boy bouncing a blue and red ball, his legs shimmying like billiard sticks.’--they blindfold the horses before they put them down, clams ‘em a bit…’ said Mrs. Simms to Mr. Simms, her mouth turned down at the corners like a dinner napkin. ‘…my dear don’t you mean calms?’ asked Mr. Simms. ‘--no clams my dear Mr. Simms, clams’. ‘…well that is most peculiar indeed Mrs. Simms, and coming from a woman with a sturdy command of the English language’. ‘--no need to worry my love, it’ll all be well…’. ‘…in good time?’ asked Mr. Simms. ‘--yes my dear Mr. Simms, in good time’. ‘…and not a moment before’ added the barrister, ‘…nary eh’.

Swooning, a gull paused to lay an egg in of Mrs. Simms’ head. ‘--I’ve been assaulted, Mr. Simms!’ Switching the direction of his gaze, his eyes set about a young lass twilling a lock of her golden hair, the Barrister Simms said ‘…no need to worry Mrs. Simms, its only an egg, and a fine round one at that’. ‘--well then, knock it off, its making me feel most peculiar!’ pleaded Mrs. Simms. Hidden behind a woman making her toilet, her skirts pulled up over her round belly, the man in the hat let go with a mild though announced titter. ‘--strange lot, them’ he said whispering, the woman making her toilet grunting, ‘--and not a tosspot to piss in’. Were it not for the woman making her toilet grunting, her skirts pulled up over her round belly, the man in the hat would have let go with a rounding guffaw; but as any sharp twilling noise might startle the commoving woman, sending a rooster tail of warm piss all over his person, he kept his rounding to himself, clearly wishing not to be assailed with a bowsprit of warm womanly piss. …birds besieging cats, muleteers besieging mules, women besieging… These things occur more oft than naught, so they do. Having finished her toilet the woman hiked her skirts up round her waist and hightailed it northward, a warm inviting smirk on her womanly face. The man in the hat couldn’t help but think, ‘--my what a fine specimen of a woman indeed, and fatter than a skinner’s mule’. The sky turned inside out, baring its soiled under clothes. In due time Mrs. Simms, in due time. But I fear the worst Mr. Simms. No worse, I’d say, than a party of crows besieging a cat, poor beast. But the egg, Mr. Simms, flick it off my head, I can’t take a moment more. Besieged the barrister Simms flicked the egg tumbling, a spot of yolk forming a perfect circle on the ground before his feet. ‘--indeed what a fine round egg, Mrs. Simms; and such a bright yellow yolk’.

Most mornings the man in the hat awoke unsettled, his thoughts skid addling in his head. Having witnessed his fair share of calamity, he felt it only proper that he reward his good nature with the purchase of a new hat. As his posture was slightly askew he lifted one leg over the other, bending evenly at the waist, and pulled his trousers on two legs at a time; a practice he had become accustom to since his feet had begun to turn inwards like cudgels, his ankles swollen red and bursting. Today he would buy a new hat, most certainly, then set out in search of the harridan’s sister who word had it was looking for Dejesus who had a bone to pick with the Witness who was busy printing new pamphlets in red, blue and yellow ink. But the egg is still on my head, Mr. Simms, is it not? Stop you’re worrying Mrs. Simms; the night is still young and so are the eggs. With that the barrister Simms and his wife set out a second time on their morning walk.

Crows and Children

The Barrister and Mrs. Simms out for their morning walk came upon a party of crows besieging a cat; Mr. Simms intoning ‘--shameful, can’t they see the poor creatures down on its luck?’ Such as this these things were not uncommon, birds besieging cats, muleteers besieging mules, women besieging one another over the strangest things; out on his own morning strolls the man in the hat had seen such calamities, children besieging children and cats fighting dogs, all manner of calamity he saw walking. Counting their blessings the Barrister and Mrs.Simms went about their day, the crows having made mincemeat of the poor cat, the Barrister Simms intoning to his wife ‘--they’ll get what’s coming to ‘em, mark my words Mrs. Simms’, his wife rejoining ‘--in due time my dear, not a moment before’.

Both parties were unwilling to acknowledge the other, the other Other simply too weary to plea for forgiveness and a more timely beginning. Crows and children larking on the front lawn of the constabulary, the smallest to the biggest giving off a hoot holler ‘--fucker’s dead!’ ‘…yes indeed’. ‘--wanna know what I think?’ ‘…by all means yes’. ‘--the crows ate ‘em’, ‘…every last bit of ‘em’. ‘--down to the hide…’. ‘…every last lick…’. …all eaten up down to the hide, sad state of affairs, sadder than that fucker’d got ate by the dog, all his hair and all. …dead as dead!

The headline in the newspaper read ‘Serial Killer Killed’, and beneath it an advert for Pimms’ Stool Softener, a picture of an off-white bed pan disappearing off the page. The man in the hat said to himself in a low whisper ‘--take before bed on a full stomach, wake up the next morning clean as a whistle’. Seated beside him, across the aisle from the Barrister and Mrs. Simms, Mrs. Simms’ bowel having prolapsed the night before leaving her fatigued and nonplussed, was a man with a gray face (worn through with Whisky and Porter) a pitted nose and eyes redder than spilt blood. He was mumbling something to himself, his voice cracking like a child looking tearfully for a lost bicycle or a dog.

The last time was the first time he felt the nausea; the thought of two dogs tail to arse while a child heaves a red and blue ball over the fence, the boy’s face ribbed with anger and contempt, was enough to bring him to his knees. He felt his shinbones give way, then a heaviness pulling him headlong into the blacktop, the smell of his da’s starched shirts and rotting fish pelting his thoughts like hailstones on sheet metal.

A Sentient Mirror

The congregation of Hornchurch Essex are in cahoots with Abano Terme Veneto. Ljubljana Bohinj and his sister Victoria, having slaked (his ass stuck fast in the dark brown mud snorting) left for Ossetia. ‘-to touch the feet of Christ’ said his sister, ‘-would be a feat of unorthodoxy’. ‘-ah but to reflect on the abstract centre of the world’ he added, his voice breaking into a tremolo. ‘-what diversity’ his sister added. ‘-indeed’ said Ljubljana Bohinj, ‘-a sentient mirror’. The Hornchurch Essex congregants congregated at the foot of Christ, the sun beating down on red-shorn ears, Abano Terme Veneto, making a trumpet of his ass, paying homage to the rich diversity of the sentient world. Further down the road, canopied under a lush green forest of trees, sat the alms man, his alms cap turned brim-side up. ‘-alms for the poor’ sang out the alms man, his face tight as a waiting fist. ‘-alms for the poor’.