Thursday, May 01, 2008

Periwinkles and French Cuffs

I slept in the bellows of my sheets, feet jimmying arms akimbo head crushed into the pillow. Lungfish airbladders creel oil and bilge. She had a pirates-patch and a saggy left-side, from a seizure or dropsy one might have assumed. My Felliniesque morning bus ride can be a caravan of odds and ends, odd-bits and quail. I dare say, dare I, public transport can be a eyesore for sore eyes, yes indeed.

I remember skinning my knee when I was a kid and my mother daubing mercurochrome on the cut, mercurochrome redder than blood. Bandaging was done in the quiet of the toilet where my dear mother swaddled my knee in a torn shirt sleeve, one of my dad’s work-shirts, a white one with periwinkle dots and French cuffs.

It’s colder than a coffin-maker’s lunch, my bedroom window, the very one from which I espy the world, rimed with hoarfrost. My plants over my bedstead bed are wilted and sorrowed, poor sots. Skinned knees daubed with mercurochrome, periwinkle dots and French cuffs redder than blood.

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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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