Thursday, June 04, 2009

The Solihull Overnight Asylum

The paralysis started in his big toe, skinning up his leg and into his hipbone like a poisonous snake. Eröffnen Spielräume had felt this before. The first time he’d be able to pull himself from bed, one leg at a time, slowly, achingly, but now he lay flat, pinioned, his legs heavier than yesterday’s regret. That morning he lay abed weaving baskets in his head, wondering where the day had gone.

Doctor Solihull of the Solihull Overnight Asylum and Zilina Alomar of the Zilina Women’s Auxiliary stood over Eröffnen Spielräume. ‘…he’s stopped breathing…’ said Zilina plainly. ‘…let’s get a look-see…’ said Solihull pushing Spielräume over on his side. ‘…seems fine to me, maybe a little stiff…’ said Solihull, his face reddening. ‘…what about his leg...?’ asked Zilina Alomar curiously. ‘…well we could cut it off…’ said the doctor. ‘…I suppose…’. ‘…but first we need a hole…’. ‘…with the saw…?’ interrupted Zilina Alomar.

La Nación de la Puta, the newspaper of choice for the upwardly and well-groomed, sold out in 27½ minutes (a record for a broadsheet with a reputation for high-living and corruption) the day it carried a story on the ‘missing whore’s glove’.

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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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