Bloom in commode eating kidney soiled, fetter of surd. Denham dead rotting in bog peat, no such luck with trackman’s stub or adman’s commission, or coitus in porkpie hat, a wee Stephen begging foreskins for alms and mother, dog’sbody, jellyfish and undertow, and the Liffey runs round and back, over hillock, copse and morgue.
Corn syrup solids, hydrogenated soybean oil, sodium caseinate, dipotassium phosphate, sugar, artificial colour, mono and diglycerides, carrageenan, soy lecithin, artificial flavours, rats’ asses, zithers, monorail grease, machinist’s oil, e, gummy white crap, salver, parturition sweat, an old sweater with tattered cuffs, pre-seminal fluid, a snippet of cocks’ wattle, (yES) a cockscomb, brushed flat, (nO) protein, penicillin, uppers, downers or PCP.
Crappy dementia, thieves one of a proper burial, a last kick at the ontological can. Who am I, was I, will I be, I? Is this the end, the abruption of sensate thought, notions and commotions of thoughts and brainwaves, brainchild, thoughts gone haywire like pabulum? Red River cereal, farina, semolina with wisps of brown sugar, emmer black, cane sugar and rutabaga, a bland no-nothing on the croup of the tongue. Cogito Eros Summa, a slight rousting in the fob of my trousers, where Jockstrap meets Leda, thumbprints left, indented, by a washerwoman’s scullery cloth: fucking Cartesian no-nonsense, too much wax and bedstead Oryx, not enough uncommon sense and Paddy’s allsorts, Rye Whiskey without the after-bite or halter, a pleasant coition of ligulas and tooth cavity.
Cunningham begs for biscuits and tea; bitters to slough the lye and foggage; seine-fein (cursed-roil) Mervyn (misses) Tallboys, whose job it is to clean pottage-trap and cistern; Dignam, Dillard and Doyle, with Crofton-of-Gumley, skink a pot of ale and lager, to drown the scourge of Eire. Kearney (of bastard-at-whore) eats jellies scoffed from tinsmith’s pantry, in lieu of bitter-stout and kidney, surd of Bloom and Dylan, offal of mincemeat and Cornish pastie.
Dolomite, barite, tungsten, Ionic pen-timber, to hell and {not} back, you heathen bastard: sew-n-knit {her a sweater} with wool and banter, Cantor’s make good {old}wholesome bagels, boiled in Kosher water, Epsom brine 85 Vincennes Avenue or there abuts, in silk pa-jamas lined with rarebits fur and otter hair(suet), come to think of {sh}it, I like my melbas dry and wafer-thin with a side-plate of pickle allspice and banter. Ionic pentameter
E-pluribus-ex-communion tabula rasa impugns. A fine and gentlemanly day, so it is; transubstantiate ex-glorious, wafers, biscuits and Port, a lolling good time {e-pluribus} on the nip of the tongue, exsanguinations from mud and water; Ipso recto abracadabra etcetera in VERITAS HUBRIS, one more for the kipper on rye Melba and lox.
That glint in your eye that summons me up from the depths where the penitents weep into the sacs of their eyes; children in purgatory; ice flows in mastoids; the witness that is life lived in absentia. You will understand when there is nothing left to understand, the logos forgotten, the reason for knowing lost to forgetfulness, bad memory and weeping eyes.
Efra deloused Caulker with a wire brush and a bottle of Jives, wrapped him in swaddling cloth and laid him to bed. He pulled the bed linen over his head, tucking in the corners to ensure a good swaddle and sleeve. A jaundice moon cowered the sky, a no-man’s-land, the tropic of parasite; shit sandwiches and false rumours and Efra lost in the vacancy of his thoughts, his hat pulled down over his eyes, two black diamonds cut in halves, and Caulker wrapped in swaddling, Jives and tuck, a gibbous moon sick with junk.
Green is the colour of Absinthe and wormwood, crème de menthe and Chartreuse; a leg rankle with gonorrhoeal pirouettes, syphilitic with fester and blain, gangrene green.
I am tired; I have not been this tired since my expulsion from the parturition hole some forty-eight years ago, February 27th to be exact (which I seldom am). And the doctor masked in green linens, spectacles taped to the bridge of his nose, forcing the speculum into the ovum hatch, me skimming like an otter down the birthing canal arms flailing for dear life. Perhaps this is when the compulsions started, the origin of their unmasking. Afloat in the clemency of the amniotic sac, fingers gripping the umbilicus I felt an ease and comfort that has thereafter eluded me; a foetal oneness, a meta-ontological parity, a oneness with self and other. I can count on nothing but logarithms and integers, vectors and fractions, into’s and out-of’s, pluses and minuses, algebraic nonsense (all of it).
Corn syrup solids, hydrogenated soybean oil, sodium caseinate, dipotassium phosphate, sugar, artificial colour, mono and diglycerides, carrageenan, soy lecithin, artificial flavours, rats’ asses, zithers, monorail grease, machinist’s oil, e, gummy white crap, salver, parturition sweat, an old sweater with tattered cuffs, pre-seminal fluid, a snippet of cocks’ wattle, (yES) a cockscomb, brushed flat, (nO) protein, penicillin, uppers, downers or PCP.
Crappy dementia, thieves one of a proper burial, a last kick at the ontological can. Who am I, was I, will I be, I? Is this the end, the abruption of sensate thought, notions and commotions of thoughts and brainwaves, brainchild, thoughts gone haywire like pabulum? Red River cereal, farina, semolina with wisps of brown sugar, emmer black, cane sugar and rutabaga, a bland no-nothing on the croup of the tongue. Cogito Eros Summa, a slight rousting in the fob of my trousers, where Jockstrap meets Leda, thumbprints left, indented, by a washerwoman’s scullery cloth: fucking Cartesian no-nonsense, too much wax and bedstead Oryx, not enough uncommon sense and Paddy’s allsorts, Rye Whiskey without the after-bite or halter, a pleasant coition of ligulas and tooth cavity.
Cunningham begs for biscuits and tea; bitters to slough the lye and foggage; seine-fein (cursed-roil) Mervyn (misses) Tallboys, whose job it is to clean pottage-trap and cistern; Dignam, Dillard and Doyle, with Crofton-of-Gumley, skink a pot of ale and lager, to drown the scourge of Eire. Kearney (of bastard-at-whore) eats jellies scoffed from tinsmith’s pantry, in lieu of bitter-stout and kidney, surd of Bloom and Dylan, offal of mincemeat and Cornish pastie.
Dolomite, barite, tungsten, Ionic pen-timber, to hell and {not} back, you heathen bastard: sew-n-knit {her a sweater} with wool and banter, Cantor’s make good {old}wholesome bagels, boiled in Kosher water, Epsom brine 85 Vincennes Avenue or there abuts, in silk pa-jamas lined with rarebits fur and otter hair(suet), come to think of {sh}it, I like my melbas dry and wafer-thin with a side-plate of pickle allspice and banter. Ionic pentameter
E-pluribus-ex-communion tabula rasa impugns. A fine and gentlemanly day, so it is; transubstantiate ex-glorious, wafers, biscuits and Port, a lolling good time {e-pluribus} on the nip of the tongue, exsanguinations from mud and water; Ipso recto abracadabra etcetera in VERITAS HUBRIS, one more for the kipper on rye Melba and lox.
That glint in your eye that summons me up from the depths where the penitents weep into the sacs of their eyes; children in purgatory; ice flows in mastoids; the witness that is life lived in absentia. You will understand when there is nothing left to understand, the logos forgotten, the reason for knowing lost to forgetfulness, bad memory and weeping eyes.
Efra deloused Caulker with a wire brush and a bottle of Jives, wrapped him in swaddling cloth and laid him to bed. He pulled the bed linen over his head, tucking in the corners to ensure a good swaddle and sleeve. A jaundice moon cowered the sky, a no-man’s-land, the tropic of parasite; shit sandwiches and false rumours and Efra lost in the vacancy of his thoughts, his hat pulled down over his eyes, two black diamonds cut in halves, and Caulker wrapped in swaddling, Jives and tuck, a gibbous moon sick with junk.
Green is the colour of Absinthe and wormwood, crème de menthe and Chartreuse; a leg rankle with gonorrhoeal pirouettes, syphilitic with fester and blain, gangrene green.
I am tired; I have not been this tired since my expulsion from the parturition hole some forty-eight years ago, February 27th to be exact (which I seldom am). And the doctor masked in green linens, spectacles taped to the bridge of his nose, forcing the speculum into the ovum hatch, me skimming like an otter down the birthing canal arms flailing for dear life. Perhaps this is when the compulsions started, the origin of their unmasking. Afloat in the clemency of the amniotic sac, fingers gripping the umbilicus I felt an ease and comfort that has thereafter eluded me; a foetal oneness, a meta-ontological parity, a oneness with self and other. I can count on nothing but logarithms and integers, vectors and fractions, into’s and out-of’s, pluses and minuses, algebraic nonsense (all of it).
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