Tuesday, August 21, 2007

The Alewife's Commodepot

Cabot: there is no thieving bicycle thief (the alewife’s commode-pot), no bent-cock. I steal bicycles in my sleep, tares and wheels humming; yellow seats sparkly with sparkles. Cabot is a fig of my (me) imagination, a mere prune. One sews what one seeds. Cabot: Cabot’s cock wallowing (alewife’s commode-pot pitted with stale urine). I stole my first bicycle on a lark; suckling lolling saltlick milk, yellow sparkly. The innkeeper died a most horrible death at the hands of bare-knuckled men; fisticuffed him to a pulp, poor sod bastard dead rotting in peat and blight (the innkeeper’s dullard) nowhere to be found. A simper filament of (me) imagination, and not another word.

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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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