Wednesday, January 16, 2008

A Sabot to the Arse

(Jan 16/08)

‘I’ve never met a podiatrist I didn’t like’ he said to she, ‘shoehorn to the wind and a stern sabot to the arse-bottom, up, up and far, far away’. This, this grammatical-fratricide, is the result of a morning’s session with Freud (cinch-knots are my knot of choice).

Me da brought food-products home from work; things like Koogle Peanut Butter (chocolate, vanilla, cinnamon and something that tasted like potters’ clay) Pringle’s potato slims, cheese that came in squeeze-sacs and jellies and jams with too much pectin and sugar. He was to try these things out on us, his laboratory-family, to see if they were market-savvy. The (Koogle) Peanut butter was horrid, the Pringles indigestible and the jams and jellies too gooey and sweet.

We had what I came to call our-Mormon-larder in the basement; shelf upon shelf of things, unmarketable things, things that were neither savvy or just sweet enough, things that came in cardboard boxes and plastic-wrap, things that were way past their expiration date (years, sometimes) and some things unlike any food I’d ever seen or eaten; food with little swirls in it, food with nuts and raisons, food that looked like it had already been eaten, digested (cowed with amino acid and bile) then spit back up.

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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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