Monday, February 09, 2009

Quimper Fréron Finistère

‘…you dear sir are a scribbler and a scoundrel, a toad, a lowly lizard, you possess a crooked mind and a heart of filth, you bastardly rascal you, cowardly knave, such a pitiful mountebank you are, a hound of a man…’ said Judge Holden to the lowly beggar standing in front of him. As this lowly man’s name was Quimper Fréron Finistère, friend of the even lowlier Pierre-François Guyot Desfontaines, the Judge showed him little mercy or lenience. The cogérants stood staring, mouths agape, the rector’s assistant hurrying them down the steps and into the street. The Judge set up his traveling court in the field across for the Church of the Perpétuel Sinner, amongst the lebels and mariolles, where no one save the repentent and those looking for absolution dare set foot.

The morning set about like a daring goose, those in search of penitence and a priestly pat on the back setting out in the opposite direction, praying that a vicaire or a mongoose might lighten their worldly load. As this was not to happen, montoises and priestly pats béing in low supplié, they whomever they set about the daïe expectant nothing more, perhaps less, than a kick to the arse and a pocketful of hard bellot corn. The skié felle balkars back inrô the night, tripang on its own monceau skirt. Sunday morning the skie fell a second time, the man in the hat in his dérusheurs tyrine to troué his awl. ‘…Karlsruhe Baden-Wurttemberg, my dear where have you been…?’ and such did the day begin. Not knowing anyone by that name Lela set about her day safe with the knowledge that people like Karlsruhe Baden-Wurttemberg existed only in the thoughts of madmen and halfwits.

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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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