Friday, August 01, 2008

Bogmans’ Ham

Dogmen and whores, jiminy-jims what has become of the world? Its never too late to learn a new trick. Bolin’s vapors, a cure-all for cowlicks and Coober’s thumb. Over yonder the sky is falling. The Jolly Greeting Card truck corseted round the corner, a windsock flailing from the antenna. Around the next corner, coopering and gliding like a box-kite, the Mercury Fish Co. truck ran an amber light, a crateful of bruised Red Snapper hitting the pavement like a cherry-bomb. The Jolly Greeting Card truck came to a skidding halt, barely missing the front bumper of the Mercury Fish truck. ‘…you imbecile…!’ screamed the Jolly Greeting Card truck driver, ‘…you could have killed us both…’. The driver of the Mercury Fish Co. truck slid across the driver’s seat, his face a twisted wreck, and said ‘…but I didn’t, did I...?’ ‘…to fuck with you…!’ shouted the Jolly Greeting Card truck driver. The Mercury Fish Co. driver pushed the truck into gear and coasted away, a Happy Ships’ Day greeting card clipping in the U-joint.

Having witnessed the near collision the man in the hat turned, and facing southeasterly jaunted down the sideways, his favorite tan bowler cleaved under his arm for safekeeping.

The Boolean lights shone brighter than a Shankill bomb fire, a scrum of waif-wild children dancing ring-around the crackling flames. Its never too soon to learn a new sidestep, or lick the ashen ash from the manse of your Boolean head. Dog pound pounded meat, good for the digestion and jockey’s foot. Add half a tbsp to a skink of brown froth, jig-jig and down she goes, smoother than castor oil and heavy cream. Not for the Sinn Féin of heart or knee-knockers. Mr. Griffith seeks the pleasure of you’re company at the next Ard Fheiseanna, to be held in a Cottage Ham cottage, the location of which has not yet been made public. Old rag ham and boiled oats, ladle the scum from the topmost of the boil with the brandished end of a hook-and-tine. Bogmans’ ham, add a smidgen-pinch of allspice and roust into a tepid rue. A bright glimmering Boolean sky, the location of which has yet to be made public. Its never to late to learn a new trick; never.

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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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