Saturday, August 30, 2008

Stout Stout and a Good Smoke

That morning the Liepaja Stepbrothers left for Bucharest never to return. The following morning the man in the hat got a telegraph from the Kista Brothers of Stockholms Lan declaring a monopoly over shoes and all things cobbled. He read the telegram then tossed it into the dustbin behind the Greek Deli. The alleyway behind the Greek Deli was a smorgasbord of spoiled buffets and sit-down dinners. ‘…what a silly world…’ he said, ‘stepbrothers fighting brothers over heel supports and eyelet punches…’. He spit-licked the brim of his hat, a sou'wester with a cockatiel plume, and went about his business, his thoughts sundry with cobblers’ awls and swung fists.

‘…I can’t remember the last time I had a good smoke…’ said the legless man to the alms man. ‘…and I a good stout Stout…’ said the alms man to the legless man. ‘…a good smoke and a stout Stout, what a splendid thought...’ said the legless man. ‘…sumptuous indeed…’ said the alms man, ‘…a splendid thought…’. The headlines in the morning Gazette read: 'POLICING ISSUE BEHIND RIOTS', Crisis talks at Stormont, IRA prisoners seek to clear record, Sharp reaction to Lisbon re-run proposal, Ogra Shinn Fein goes postal, Feature: March to overcome injustice, Analysis: British human rights record still among worst, the Polbeg Brewery has ceased producing Bogtown Stout, local man hangs himself from a tree in protest, fighting continues in the northern provinces. Dejesus’ family came from the northern provinces where Polbeg, sheepshanking and hangings were a familial tradition. A day didn’t pass without someone in the Dejesus family coming across a swaying corpse, the eyes pebbled with crows’ strikes, the tongue salted with hate and bigotry. The north had troubles with the south and the east troubles with the west, the entire country in troubles with itself.

The next day the headlines in the Polbeg Daily read, Go raibh mile maith agat. ‘…the cunts’re at it again…’ grumbled Dejesus, ‘…fucking dodgy bastards…’. The legless man sat in front of the Waymart and took in the clutter of the day, his stump-ends tucked under the seat of his half-trousers.

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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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