Sunday, January 25, 2009

The da Did

At that very moment a codger of wee shit-haired piglets broke stitch, the littlest one wee-weaning all the way home, the biggest one crabwalking like a gunslinger gone bad. ‘…wee chancy cunts’ grumbled the shamble leg man, ‘…and not a tosspot to pisspot in…’. We’ve heard this before, back then when we could see with our ears and hear with our eyes, on tippy-toes yanking the clouds from the sky, shouting and dancing, back when nothing made sense, and those things that did we could care less about. Back before the belly laughs and the cobbler mamma served us in milk-laced bowls, mamma shouting ‘…stop that clatter, stop it…’. The pudding, tapioca and raisin, wee ones we fed on milk rations and salted crackers, waiting for the da to come bounding through the door, we wee ones with our milky faces and coin-big eyes. And the ma darting in and out fixing the da some piping hot stew, stew-bone slipping in the ladled pot, the da smiling like a Cheshire. Back when it all went to rot, back when fettle and spoil filled our eyes with anguish, and we wee ones not even knowing what the word ‘anguish’ meant. And the ma dancing, darting to and fro, the da smiling like a Cheshire, the da did. Back then back.

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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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