The legless man fell, skipping across the asphalt like a thrown stone. On the ½ time he snagged his coattails on a sewer hole, sending him teakettling into the Waymart awning, his fêting coming to an resounding halt. ‘…were it not for the gravel on the Droichead Leamhcán I’d have made a fine time...’ he said grumbling, ‘...and the cunts hoot hooting on the Óg Ó Mórdha...’. The Ibirama twins from Santa Catarina stood on the Droichead Ruairí Óg Ó Mórdha trumpeting, the youngest gulping fists of air, the eldest squinting, both twins hoot hooting. The legless man, his face borne with discomfiture, pointed angrily at the twins, yelling ‘…that’s them, that’s the cunts that were hooting…’. As no one within earshot heard him yelling, his discomfiture fell on deaf ears. A man with a fur collared jacket, seeing how unsettled the legless man was, said ‘…bury the cunts, there’s lots of room in Cimetière du Père-Lachaise…’.
Tomorrow I will buy a loaf of Quaker bread and a half-pound of jellied pork. U. C. Eccles came by way of Swindon on a 3-oar ferry with two rudders. He met the gyp-rock man at the Derry Pigwash in nineteen-hundred and fifty-seven, both men hawking rock-salt and collectables. These thoughts and images, for every thought comes with a rebus, came to the man in the hat as he watched the legless man fighting with the cunts that hooted and cajoled him, the biggest of them haranguing the man wearing the fur collared jacket, the littlest pointing his finger at the sky, sighing, and passing wind through the trumpet of his ass. Were, he thought, were things different, were trumpeting asses and cajoling cunts but glitches in the greater scheme, the day would have begun differently, ending with a hurrah rather than a fight over bad manners and wheedling. Caddish cunts, spiteful jeerers. No man, he thought, should need put up with such inveiglement. Nasty twofaced bastards, pigwash! Feeling braver than he usually did, he threw his cap into the air, and running forward caught it on the top of his head. Spiteful jeerers, he said to himself, his cap teetering on the top of his head, cads! The legless man sat under the Waymart awning burbling to himself, ‘…the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, tossé dort on théier Égly mûrs…’. A man standing within earshot said gurgling ‘…lithiné Éperonne Aarschot, du dort théier Égly mûrs tossé…’.
Tomorrow I will buy a loaf of Quaker bread and a half-pound of jellied pork. U. C. Eccles came by way of Swindon on a 3-oar ferry with two rudders. He met the gyp-rock man at the Derry Pigwash in nineteen-hundred and fifty-seven, both men hawking rock-salt and collectables. These thoughts and images, for every thought comes with a rebus, came to the man in the hat as he watched the legless man fighting with the cunts that hooted and cajoled him, the biggest of them haranguing the man wearing the fur collared jacket, the littlest pointing his finger at the sky, sighing, and passing wind through the trumpet of his ass. Were, he thought, were things different, were trumpeting asses and cajoling cunts but glitches in the greater scheme, the day would have begun differently, ending with a hurrah rather than a fight over bad manners and wheedling. Caddish cunts, spiteful jeerers. No man, he thought, should need put up with such inveiglement. Nasty twofaced bastards, pigwash! Feeling braver than he usually did, he threw his cap into the air, and running forward caught it on the top of his head. Spiteful jeerers, he said to himself, his cap teetering on the top of his head, cads! The legless man sat under the Waymart awning burbling to himself, ‘…the Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, tossé dort on théier Égly mûrs…’. A man standing within earshot said gurgling ‘…lithiné Éperonne Aarschot, du dort théier Égly mûrs tossé…’.
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