Thursday, May 21, 2009

Ignácio Escritor

Suddenly, and then a second time, the sky shook. Clambering, the legless man punted across the sideways, his pushcart barely touching the cobbles. ‘….what a windy day, and no windlasses in sight…’ said the legless man, his brow tightening under his hatband. The wind picked up, squalling the legless man to and fro, sending him arse over teakettle. ‘…tomorrow I will buy a big umbrella and scotch it to the prow of my cart…’ he said, his face twisted into a robber baron’s fist. Across the sideways, standing against the door of the Greek Deli, the alms man counts the coins in his cap, 25 nickels and 27 ½ coppers, one copper having been sliced in half by a southbound train, railhead and wheel scored into the face-side. The alms man, expressing a desire for some beverage to drink, walks into the Greek Deli, the screen door snapping shut behind him.

Looking around he says ‘…there are desperadoes who terrorize pedestrians by placing a pistol at their head…’. ‘…yes, we have skin the goat at cutthroat prices…’ says the proprietor, his face beaming. The wind picked up a second time, sending the legless man caroming and veering out of control, his pushcart almost breaking in half. Stepping over a blind beggar, his jacket twisted around his throat like a cheap ascot, the alms man pats his trouser, feeling for vassals, vassals being a rare find even in the most auspicious of times. ‘…you there, give me a leg up…’ grabbles the blind beggar, the legless man watching on with bemusement. ‘…a leg up is all I need…’ said the beggar gasping for air.

Ignácio Escritor grew up among the rabble and dimwitted of Tranent East Lothian, a place of horrendous afflictions, some so unspeakable even the most seasoned doctor vomits in his hat. Ignácio’s mamma and papa, both afflicted with an insidious affliction, the skin between they’re fingers and toes webbed together, were unable to hold they’re son, his care being given over to the town’s whore, whose milk ran from her breasts like water from an open fire hydrant, children jumping in and out of the watery swale singing and reciting childish rhymes. ‘…this is utter nonsense…’ grumbled the man in the hat under his breath. ‘…shame on you…’. The man in the hat juddered up the sideways, his hat jiggling on the crown of his head. ‘…for the love of God have you no manners…?’ he shouted basso-bocce.

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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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