la Carnival Grotesque

Maria Leopoldina del Mons was scribbled at the bottom of the letter, and beneath that the date, February 28, 1858, and beneath that, in lowercase, the name Bernini Vento Pasquale de Lourdes. He folded the letter in two, then four and placed it back in the box with the other odds and ends, the bric-a-brac of his life. Off in the distance, in ships’ bellies where rats gnaw on gangrenous legs, a yowling filled the nighttime with a hellish haw. Hurrying, he fled down the sideways, his coattails trailing behind him like a dog’s bony tail. Unhurried, Spillius Basingstoke sat counting the clouds in the blue noontime sky, her thoughts on jodhpurs and jelly-jams. She was to meet with the woman who ran the racetrack betting kiosk at 27 minutes past the noontime, not a minute before. The Hampshire Bros. have nothing to do with the Karlsruhe Bros. of West Baden-Wurttemberg East. They appear here as if by alchemy, culled from the puniest weakly source: the mind of a fool such as I. Now that that’s clear (as spat liquid soap) we can continue on with this: la Carnival Grotesque. Wearing his Peabody cap, the one his mamma gave him on his 127th birthday, the drawstring cinched, walleyed he strove into the clear blue clear sky. A dog’s bony tail tailing him every which where he went, walleyed wearing his cinch string taut Peabody cap for the 127th time. ‘…he’s a gifted boy…’ they said, their backs turned facing the wall, ‘…so much talent in such a puny weakly head…’. When he was a boy, a waifish boy, the man in the hat’s da bought him a three-shot BB-Gun, a gift for his littlest birthday. He cherished and adored his littlest birthday gift, toting it with him wherever he strove. ‘…such a gifted boy...'. '...yes, but such a weakly puny head…’.