Saturday, June 06, 2009

La Nación de la Puta

Jupon R Mutt, jack-of-all-trades, works for the Duchamp Brothers, his employ, to fasten tocadors to restroom walls. The day after the Feast of the Dreyfusards J.R. Mutt left the courtyard behind the Church of the Perpetual Sinner with a bee in his bonnet, the rector’s assistant hot on his heels. The assistant, claiming to have seen J.R. Mutt stealing from the alms box, felt a shiver corseting up his spine. So unsettled was he that he slobbered like a suckling child all over his neatly pressed surplice. ‘…God have mercy on his lowly soul…’ canted the rector’s assistant. ‘…may God release him from the bondage of thievery...’. At that very moment, and without warning, a boy darted past bouncing a red and blue ball, picking up steam as he wheeled northward along the edge of the aqueduct, his blue and red ball striking the pavement like a greased pig.

‘And I…I want soup that doesn’t have scalp-lice in it!’ yelled woman, her hands jittering like autumn leaves. A stout man in a rain slicker holding an umbrella yelled, ‘…I want what I want, nothing less…’. ‘…fuck it…gimme something or else I’ll kick the living shit out of you...’. Jupon R Mutt, jack-of-all-trades, stared agog. ‘…scalp-lice…’ he mumbled, ‘…kick the living shit out of you…’. Laid out on hospital-white-linen Eröffnen Spielräume let out a moan. ‘…the hole…’ said Zilina. ‘…the saw…’ said the doctor, his heart racing madly. The following day the man in the hat, leaving his lean-to, strode out into the day, the blue sky full of cackling graylings. Leaving behind what he could not carry he walked along the embankment alongside the aqueduct, the sun at his back, his thoughts on red velvet gloves and pepper black snuff.

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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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