The legless man knew the shamble leg man but not the man in the hat. He knew of the harridan and the alms man and the rickety-leg man but only in passing. He punted and poled his way across the blacktop, the pivot of his hips swaying to and fro. ‘My life is driving me crazy’ said the legless man, ‘all this poling and shimmying’. Albacore tuna is best served on buttered toast, butter-side up. Things best served are buttery and in shingles. Shingles are shims of wood and tarpaper. ‘Tarpaper drives me crazy’, thought the legless man, ‘mad, mad, mad…’ When he was a child the legless man was cared for by an au pair who punted him round town in a perambulator with a sari fringe on top. She spoke Esperanto and Mandarin and twiddled her fingers when she felt anxious, which she did most of the time. The legless man’s nanny took dalasi morphine in tincture vials with rubber stoppers. She bought them from a dime-store hawker with pebbly skin and a hideous overbite. He drove a two-tone Pontiac with automatic windows.
More characters to worry and fret over; when will this all end, never is my guess. Sari fringes and dalasi morphine, a little dipole will do you, a boatyard perhaps. We he they caught tuna on crooked hooks with mealworms and catchalls. Not an easy go at it, especially when the dye is cast and the fontanel soft as tofu. Not a dime-store hawker or a thieving bastard in sight, silly worries and frets. They we he drove a Pontiac coupe with automat windows, the kind your dear old dad drove, knuckles clenching the twirly-wheel, doughy bastard. ‘Thoughts without a thinker’ is what he said, rheumy sacs; eyes like two puissant holes in the snowball making snow. Comatose ergo summa, c’est un allurd dans le fiord sang. She, my dearest dear grandmamma, made peach clobber, forking the crust with the pokes of her toes; jammy tarts a la sang froid.
More characters to worry and fret over; when will this all end, never is my guess. Sari fringes and dalasi morphine, a little dipole will do you, a boatyard perhaps. We he they caught tuna on crooked hooks with mealworms and catchalls. Not an easy go at it, especially when the dye is cast and the fontanel soft as tofu. Not a dime-store hawker or a thieving bastard in sight, silly worries and frets. They we he drove a Pontiac coupe with automat windows, the kind your dear old dad drove, knuckles clenching the twirly-wheel, doughy bastard. ‘Thoughts without a thinker’ is what he said, rheumy sacs; eyes like two puissant holes in the snowball making snow. Comatose ergo summa, c’est un allurd dans le fiord sang. She, my dearest dear grandmamma, made peach clobber, forking the crust with the pokes of her toes; jammy tarts a la sang froid.
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