Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Dropped Anchor in Rokovoko

….this must stop, playing jack the ball and all the while introducing new characters at will. Shame on you, shame. A stick to the eye, into the ‘i’, shame on you, shame. He liked to play jack the ball with his granddad, whooping and hollering when his granddad dropped a stitch or fell toppling to the bric-a-brac floor. That evening, beneath cloak and hide, he stole away, leaving behind a Quaker’s dozen and a bowlful of dower grapes! The Mercury Fish van fishtailing into the kerbside, a ricking heehaw. …plain and simper, ah mien.

Unbeknown he slipped silently into the night, his face pressed into the slick yellow moon. He stopped briefly in Aravaca for a soda, which he enjoyed under the Jerks’ awning, moving on to Madrid where he partook of a bullfight and paid a visit to the Ladies’ Auxiliary, then stopping in Paitilla where he purchased a straw Panama hat with a chin-string and whistle. The coxswain pulled his cap over the flimsy cartilage of his ears, cinching it taut with a well-tied knot. One was best served if one paid attention to one’s dome, as kingfishers were known to seek shelter in the swales. ‘…not what you’d call a coxswain’s free-for-all…’. Unbeknown he slipped into the mess in search of jig-rum and press dumplings, both of which he had a fancy for on cold dew-wet nights such as these. ‘…ahoy you there dumpling thief, put that jigger down…’. There would be lieutenants punishment to be had were one to step astride the watery grave. His da told him the coxswain’s tail on those nights when the lamplighter was off sick, not one bull-lamp flickering against the slick yellow moon.

Malcolm came (ant wend) with the ebbing tyres, stopping just long enough to refill his gaol bag with jigs-rum and sweetbreads. The seafaring called him a-vestry, stoking the coal-oven, a jolly smirk on his face. His da knew Malcolm when as lads they both went faring to sea, his da aboard the Jim Dandy, Malcolm rigging Her Majesty’s skiff with brass tack and Queequeg. Faring seaworthy fairly they dropped anchor in Rokovoko, hoping to slake their thirst, but alas, they came up unslaked, finding the sea under their arses again, the slick yellow moon baying madly mad.

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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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