Morning bells chime in the Waymart belfry, the alms man punts his wedge-cart across the sideway, his face a mess of bewilderment and chanciness. Belfry coxswain tolls the bells of St. Padre en Mass. A wee Cosmist in a plasterboard cap kippers and quails in front of the Seder grocer’s, his thoughts on bauxite and cold morning cereal. The legless man gets a leg-up from the man with no hat, fenstumps bog and woggle. The day after Ship Day fell on a Thursday, the day before Dory Day and the day after Tugboat Day. The traveling circus left town two days after the day after Ship Day, leaving behind a dogface boy and a jack coxswain. The day after the day before Tugboat Day the man in the hat bought a coxswains cap, thinking it would add an air of swimmingness to his countenance. The day before the day after the day after Ship Day the shamble leg man found a second whores’ glove, this one so palmed and threadbare it looked like a carrion-mitt. The day after before Dory Day the committee for Ship Day convened to discuss next year’s festivities. The wee Cosmist bought a copy of Unpopular Mechanics with the money he made barking for the sherbet hawker, a man with such bucked teeth he looked more like a spitting camel than a sherbet hawker. No one drown the day after Ships Day. Three people, one of whom was the jack coxswain, drown the day after Tugboat Day. The dogface boy went swimming the day before Dory Day, his swim trunks caballed round his waist like a Cosmist’s tangier.
A man with a buffalo-head hat swam swimmingly across the street, swam trunks toddled round his midriff. ‘…what a fine and mottled day…’ spoke the shamble legman, his shamble legs in shambles. ‘…not a crow in the sky, what a joy to beheld hold…’. ‘…I can’t take much more of this’ yipped the alms man, ‘…a pea in the same pod, yes indeed…’. The sky broke open and spat, spume sputum spittle falling on the dirty brown earth below. ‘…I can’t take much whore piss…’ yowled the alms man, ‘…not if I want to collect coins proper’. ‘Wait up for me’ hollered the Cosmist, hands dairying. ‘…I have a hogshead head, fresh slaughtered and still warm, and I’m willing to share it…’. Dejesus fixed his collide and hurried into the day, his coattails in tatters, face red with yesterday’s worries. ‘…nary none nary few, a wee tincture of whatabout and seaman’s cap…’. That night after the city had fallen asleep, the man in the hat crept into the Waymart through a tear in the awning and pilfered a Quaker’s loaf, three tins of ocean bream, a cowboy’s bolo and as many hats as he could carry, sneaking out the same way he crept in. ‘…in excelsior goriest...’ he whispered, ‘…and may the first to fall fall last…’.
A man with a buffalo-head hat swam swimmingly across the street, swam trunks toddled round his midriff. ‘…what a fine and mottled day…’ spoke the shamble legman, his shamble legs in shambles. ‘…not a crow in the sky, what a joy to beheld hold…’. ‘…I can’t take much more of this’ yipped the alms man, ‘…a pea in the same pod, yes indeed…’. The sky broke open and spat, spume sputum spittle falling on the dirty brown earth below. ‘…I can’t take much whore piss…’ yowled the alms man, ‘…not if I want to collect coins proper’. ‘Wait up for me’ hollered the Cosmist, hands dairying. ‘…I have a hogshead head, fresh slaughtered and still warm, and I’m willing to share it…’. Dejesus fixed his collide and hurried into the day, his coattails in tatters, face red with yesterday’s worries. ‘…nary none nary few, a wee tincture of whatabout and seaman’s cap…’. That night after the city had fallen asleep, the man in the hat crept into the Waymart through a tear in the awning and pilfered a Quaker’s loaf, three tins of ocean bream, a cowboy’s bolo and as many hats as he could carry, sneaking out the same way he crept in. ‘…in excelsior goriest...’ he whispered, ‘…and may the first to fall fall last…’.
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