While out on his evening stroll he came upon a man wearing a loose overcoat cinched round his waist with butchers’ string. Passing him he says in passing ‘…cold weather, and you with your coat in tatters…’. Turning the man says ‘…worse ‘n scalp-lice…’. ‘…so it is…’. ‘…last year I had a heedful of ‘em, crawled all the way down there…’ he says pointing at the cuffs of his trousers. ‘…sad indeed…’. ‘…and the stink, makes a man want to burn his skin clean off…’. ‘…a torrid…’ adds the evening stroller, his face caving outwards. ‘…smoke…?’ ‘…I haven’t…’ he replies kindly yet firmly. ‘…saw one of them dolmans, bigger than a burnsides…’. Chahar Mahall va Bakhtiari’s first painting was titled ‘a fat woman sits on man’, painted when he was seven years old. It now hangs in the front corridor of the Waymart, where for a nickel you can touch the raspberry soft skin of the woman’s buttocks, or for a dime the splayed prickle of her areola. On the opposite wall hangs a pastel sketch of the Coláiste Ríoga Eolaíocht Éireann, replete with hollyhocks and lupines; sketched by the not so great Irish etcher Samuel de la Champignon. …what have we here, a saltlick without a palling tongue.
As if by magic (alchemic enchantment) the alms man flew upside down soaring into the blue pastel sky. ‘…ahoy you fat bastards, and so long…’. With feast day days away, the middle of the month coming later that year, he felt the muscles in his heart tightening, ‘…what I wouldn’t do for a side of rashers, burnt side up…’ he mumbled, the fat man soaring beside him up to his armpits in cankers and boils. Soaring ever higher he flew, his arms pulling teeth from the jaws of the clouds. ‘…kindly remove your tongue from my saltlick, I have no time for bellyachers and imbeciles…’. Saying this he felt the strings of his heart twang like a catgut bow. The days before feast days are always long and wood boring; making one think that food isn’t what its made out to be. All that chewing and swallowing, chomping and grinding, and the bits failsafe that fall into the belly of your lap; poor bastard’s bib garroting his chin …nailed failsafe down with carpet tacks and resounding thwacks. …fighting off the ma’s hand jibbing the spoon into the cockpit of his maw.
As if by magic (alchemic enchantment) the alms man flew upside down soaring into the blue pastel sky. ‘…ahoy you fat bastards, and so long…’. With feast day days away, the middle of the month coming later that year, he felt the muscles in his heart tightening, ‘…what I wouldn’t do for a side of rashers, burnt side up…’ he mumbled, the fat man soaring beside him up to his armpits in cankers and boils. Soaring ever higher he flew, his arms pulling teeth from the jaws of the clouds. ‘…kindly remove your tongue from my saltlick, I have no time for bellyachers and imbeciles…’. Saying this he felt the strings of his heart twang like a catgut bow. The days before feast days are always long and wood boring; making one think that food isn’t what its made out to be. All that chewing and swallowing, chomping and grinding, and the bits failsafe that fall into the belly of your lap; poor bastard’s bib garroting his chin …nailed failsafe down with carpet tacks and resounding thwacks. …fighting off the ma’s hand jibbing the spoon into the cockpit of his maw.
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