Thursday, June 19, 2008

Jigging Cod

Where to begin when all beginnings end in the same place, the cunt went that a way there, silly bastard Charlie boy. This is pure madness this is this; raking up agun the coals and umbers of life’s misfortunes, told me it’d all work out ripe and fine; cuntsops lied, surely as I’m a mad cunt me-self. Never put the trusting in a cuntsop, always the worse to wear, and wear thin at that, left high out to dry without a teapot to toss in, all that misfortune and gangbusting, swillhound bas tar chasing rabbits on the foot, keychain jigging on the fob, tatty ligulae smacking smack, smack.

The day Dejesus busted his leg the man in the hat was jigging cod behind the Waymart with a bent-over-and-round safely-pin noosed on a trephine he’d pilfered from the harridan’s mother’s needle-box. ‘..damn Charlie boy leg’ whined Dejesus, ‘…right through the knick and bone’. The man in the hat jigged a cod onto the cement foothold that circumambulated the aqueduct rig-house, the cod bumping and reeling agun the bare skin of his short-panted legs. ‘…damn bastard cod…smacking smack, smack...’.

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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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