Monday, June 01, 2009

Horace De Moyle, Parnassian

The Parnassian Horace De Moyle lives outside the five-mile fence, making his home in an austere shanty cottage overlooking the Vincennes Glove Co. He eats nothing green, olive, pea or army, bright green or Brunswick green, Celadon, Dartmouth or emerald green, Feldgrau green, Green-yellow, Harlequin green or Hunter green, India green or Islamic green, Kelly green, Midnight green, Office green or Persian green, Pigment green or grass green, Rifle green, Sea green, Asparagus green or Fern green, Gray-asparagus or gray-green, a close relative of jungle green, Moss green, Myrtle green or Sap green, Shamrock green, also referred to as Irish green, Tea green or Teal, which has equal parts blue and green, and color wheel green, known also as X11 green, preferring bright yellows and earthy browns.

The Groningen women’s auxiliary of South Groningen, known for they’re splendid voices and operatic arias, and the Kosice sisters of Kosice-Trebisov New Kosice, builders of moveable daises and concert chairs, met one afternoon under the Waymart clock, the two parties, unbeknown to the another, there to attend the Feast of the Goat, a yearly gathering of oxmen and roustabouts. On the other side of the street, with they’re backs to the sisters, stood the Krasnoyarsk twins, Ivan and Igor Krasnoyarsk, Ivan sticking his tongue out at whomever passed by, Igor simpering about the cost of fish and costume jewellery. ‘…when, by God, will they come out with an affordable pair of coral earrings and a boneless whitefish…?’ simpered Igor, his face reddening.

Horace De Moyle, Parnassian, let go with a yipping hurrah, summoning the attention of the Kosice sisters, who, having found nothing of interest to catch they’re fancy, were shuffling to and fro, the eldest sister pealing a tag of skin from her leftmost eyelid. The man in the hat, having moments earlier arrived behind the Groningen women’s auxiliary of South Groningen, watched as the Kosice sisters of Kosice-Trebisov New Kosice secured a scrap of linoleum over a sizeable hole in the daises’ awning. ‘…this is absurd…’ he said whispering, his hat flapping in the noonday breeze. ‘…yes…’ said Ivan, his face lit up like a neon sign, ‘…but isn’t everything…?’ His hat flapping, the man in the hat rejoined ‘…yes, but on such a glorious sunshiny day…’.

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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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