Thursday, February 01, 2007

Spent Matches and Sulfur

She hooked her legs round his neck and wailed into the trove of his ear. The gypsy woman smelled of orange roughie, creel and roe. The heels of her feet were bricked with calluses, a plagiary of hard skin that caused her to keel to one side like an abandoned ship. He tried to push her from his chest but she heeled upside his kidneys, so he shook his head from side to side hoping she’d declutch and leave him be. When this didn’t work, he boxed her ears and whispered, ‘you gypsies are a miserable bunch, all this wailing and plagiary', and threw her to the ground, an odor like spent matches and sulfur bricking the air.


Anonymous said...

Some may choose to go to Yuk Yuks for their laughs but I would rather read one of your superb pieces anytime, Stephen. Great humour.


John W. MacDonald said...

I clicked on one of the Google Ads. Are you rich now?

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

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