Tuesday, May 05, 2009

The Glaswegian Doctor G. J. Finucane

.‘…I’ve had enough of this gobbledygook…’ said the man in the hat. Crossing the curbside he hightailed it eastward scurrying. All he wanted was a moment’s rest, sprawled out under a long-winded elm on the banks of the aqueduct counting fish in a barrel, the day reeling off into the distance. His grandmamma made him wear a starched shirt to Mass, lest father what’s-his-name scold him for poor hygiene and sloppy attire. He felt a burning at the base of his head, next to the fourth and seventh vertebra abutting the pineal gland. He jabbed his fingertips into the bone-hinge at the foot of his jaw, ‘...I have the jawbone of an ass....’.

Dejesus was either leaving or coming. He left, returning when he had nothing left to stay for. Staying, he felt his way round, touching the inside out of things, walking shoulder to shoulder with the sky into the blue grave of the sea, leaving behind the child that never went further than the back fence, sitting in the tire-swing behind the woolshed, feeling the inside pushing out, the moon gently sighing, his ma kissing his forehead, gently, softly, forever.

The Glaswegian Doctor G. J. Finucane, P.C. M'Coy and Patrick Elpenor approached from the east, crossing the bridge where the five-mile fence spans the aqueduct. P.C. M'Coy, from Schifferstadt, a agrarian green nook that sits snugly between Rheinland-Pfalz and the Hero Distillery, looking over her shoulder said ‘…a fine day indeed…’, to which Patrick Elpenor, a member in good standing with the Högskola Commoners Society, replied ‘…yes indeed yes…’, the Glaswegian Doctor G. J. Finucane, who’s spinster mother paid for his schooling with open legs, adding ‘…and lowly hot…’.

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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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