With It’s Caw Cawing
(Feb 23/06)
The cinnamon burns the inside of my mouth, the quid of my cheeks peppery and scalloped. I devil the stalk with my tongue, chousing the stick against the roof of my mouth, the sulk of my palate lolling on threads of sweet tartness, stolid with potato vodka and caraway, diuretics curried with ethanol and carob. I am mad, quite mad indeed, as it is, mad, quite mad. Anise, I will have none of that, black licorice and treacle sweetness, too galling and rheumy for the palate, a sacredness best left to rectors and whooplas. The coffee is bitter, nut bitter, bitter lying the twigs of the lingual, ligneous. A crow coddles air with its caw cawing; sluing caws of caw coddled air, as crows are wont to do. I ignore the cawing, as crows are meddlesome creatures with little regard for proper tone and candor. Menaces, some say, winged mendicants so it’s said by some. My head, the inside, cranial inside of my head, is thumping with thumps. These thumps thumping are most disconcerting indeed, very much so indeed. As I know of no catchall panacea for head cudgeling, I best make reference to a medical compendium or a neurological pandectium, even though there is no such précis. Winged devils and cretins, and a varied unction of no-do-goods, these I could most certainly do without. I am reading several books, or tomes, as I prefer to call them: Robert Walser’s selection of short stories, The Walk, Bruno Schulz’s The Street of Crocodiles and Sanatorium Under The Sign of The Hourglass, Juan Goytisolo’s Count Julian and The Young Assassins, and Quarantine, should time permit, Louis Althusser’s memoir The Future Lasts Forever, a collection of Paul Celan’s Poems, and several turgid volumes on psychoanalytic theory and philosophy, both impossibly unreadable. All of these, these tomes, as you may well imagine, making my life all put impossible to endure. Mind you, endurance is highly overrated indeed, highly impossible, at least for a cudgel-brain such as I.
The cinnamon burns the inside of my mouth, the quid of my cheeks peppery and scalloped. I devil the stalk with my tongue, chousing the stick against the roof of my mouth, the sulk of my palate lolling on threads of sweet tartness, stolid with potato vodka and caraway, diuretics curried with ethanol and carob. I am mad, quite mad indeed, as it is, mad, quite mad. Anise, I will have none of that, black licorice and treacle sweetness, too galling and rheumy for the palate, a sacredness best left to rectors and whooplas. The coffee is bitter, nut bitter, bitter lying the twigs of the lingual, ligneous. A crow coddles air with its caw cawing; sluing caws of caw coddled air, as crows are wont to do. I ignore the cawing, as crows are meddlesome creatures with little regard for proper tone and candor. Menaces, some say, winged mendicants so it’s said by some. My head, the inside, cranial inside of my head, is thumping with thumps. These thumps thumping are most disconcerting indeed, very much so indeed. As I know of no catchall panacea for head cudgeling, I best make reference to a medical compendium or a neurological pandectium, even though there is no such précis. Winged devils and cretins, and a varied unction of no-do-goods, these I could most certainly do without. I am reading several books, or tomes, as I prefer to call them: Robert Walser’s selection of short stories, The Walk, Bruno Schulz’s The Street of Crocodiles and Sanatorium Under The Sign of The Hourglass, Juan Goytisolo’s Count Julian and The Young Assassins, and Quarantine, should time permit, Louis Althusser’s memoir The Future Lasts Forever, a collection of Paul Celan’s Poems, and several turgid volumes on psychoanalytic theory and philosophy, both impossibly unreadable. All of these, these tomes, as you may well imagine, making my life all put impossible to endure. Mind you, endurance is highly overrated indeed, highly impossible, at least for a cudgel-brain such as I.
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