Saturday, June 28, 2008

The Homagama Slattern

‘…this is corking good fun…’ laughed the shamble legged man. ‘…yes indeed yes’ said the legless man, ‘…indeed…’. A moo-cow clapped clopped up the sideways, ‘…moo mooing…’ it cowed, ‘…moo…’. The moo-cow stopped in front of the Waymart, lifted its tail and shat all over the fallen awning. The shamble leg man looked at the legless man and said ‘…goodness me, the dear thing shat all over the awning…’. ‘…indeed…’ said the legless man, ‘…shat it did…’. When the Homagama slattern arrived from Sri Lanka the man in the hat welcomed her with open arms, his best bowler tippled to one side, his feet shoed in brown loafers with half-knee knee socks. She had been working at Universidade de Sao Paulo as a research assistant for the Lutheran Cabalist Fredrik Gonxalas Maxima, a Cabalist with a mean streak as wide as a whore’s smile. Before that she worked as a tinker’s gopher for the family that owned the Stowmarket Otsego Spur Co. a small austere firm with a warehouse in Suffolk on Thames. Stowmarket Otsego Spur Co. made cockspurs and cattlemen’s bootblack, the bootblack to keep the spurs from slipping off the heeltap. ‘…this is marvelous indeed…’ said the slattern, ‘…bootblack cockspurs…horses beware, ungallant ungulates!’

The slattern stood hopping on one foot, the other foot bend double under the trumpet of her ass. ‘…oh me goodness my, whatever shat I do?’ The day after the day the slattern arrived in town the scullery crew was busy cleaning up after Ship Day. The scullery crew consisted of 27 strong backed men who abhorred Ship Day with a hatred broaching on madness. ‘Look at all this crap,’ said crewman one to the crewman two, crewman two busy on his hands and knees fishing spent condoms out of the water fountain in front of the Waymart. ‘…fucking heathens…every last one of ‘em…’. Crewman number two cocked his head to face crewman two, a spent condom stuck to the bulb of his nose, and said ‘…not a God fearing bone in the lot of ‘em…!’ ‘…fucking pigs…’. ‘…swine herders…’ said crewman two to crewman one, ‘…the lot of ‘em…’. ‘…and not a God fearing bone between ‘em…’. The second crewman, flicking the spent condom from the knob of his nose, exclaimed ‘…bellies wormy with spunk…’.

No comments:

About Me

My photo
"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
Powered By Blogger

Blog Archive