Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Fey Dryad

Her petticoat round her knees, heels clipping, the harridan left the commode. The commode pot upturned, door swinging, she left in a scurry, her socks bagging round the cobble. Hurrying she left, her knee-socks round her ankles.

The commode upturned, she sped fleeing quickly homeward. Poor Paddy dinging, his head full of nonsense, took a left turn then a right then ambled sideways, the pockets of his not so greatcoat billowing. Casting aside the only clue he had, the shamble leg man floundering swiftly homeward. ‘…its never to late to learn a new trick…’ said the shamble leg man bootlicking. Kerbed, a stray astray, the orphaned urchin high-tailed it to the leeside quay, fey tickly tock. Besotted on yesterday’s quiver, the shamble leg man passed fleetly the now crouching fey waif, her urchin’s locks trussed in a double bow. ‘…its never to late to learn an old trick…’ he said in passing, the fey dryad bedeviled with trickery and the un supernatural. Enrapt in a red checkered kerchief, she saved the last of her queso aleman, a gift from the legless man who said no thank you to thank you.

Suspenders coiled round his ankles the alms man left in a bustling hurry. Logarithms plaguing his every move, he rounded off to the highest number, then starting at the end worked his way forward. Once he’d rewound to the beginning he redounded to the end, thinking as he did ‘…heathenry…!’

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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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