Friday, March 13, 2009

Declan Keogh Bewails

Drafting ether from a plastic bag, his nose bluing, Declan Keogh bewails ‘…if only I could find some peace and quiet…’. Having that morning out-witted a roustabout, Declan capable of holding his own with connivers, he felt exhausted, his legs tin heavy. ‘…damn roustabouts, never know when’re and how the bastards ill get you…’. At that very moment, as if from out of nowhere, a snap of lightening flashed across the sky, the windsock on the Cocks’ Tower twirling like a whirling dervish. He knew the man in the hat and the harridan’s sister, the Seder grocer’s wife and the henpeck Simms; but had yet to make the acquaintance of the legless man or Dejesus, or the littlest dogmen and his brothers. He did his weekly shopping at the Waymart, where he bought Porker’s ham and cheese spread, rutabaga and heads of ice-cold lettuce, liking the odd sandwich with a leafy garnish and Gibbs’ hard mustard. When he was a boy in britches and knee socks his mamma made him cheese spread sandwiches with pickle and onion salad, serving the sandwich open-face on a tea saucer and the salad tossed in a tin caldron. ‘…stop that infernal humming…’ his mamma would hiss, ‘…its enough that I have to listen to your father clicking his dentures, clackety clack...’. Having huffed the last of the ether, the skin splitting round his eyes, he tossed the ether bag into the nearest dustbin and walked staggering up the sideways. ‘…if only I could escape this din in my head…’.

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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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