Wednesday, June 03, 2009

Medoro and Agramante

“Returning to the proceedings of him of the Rueful Countenance”, an unpleasant affair of cudgels and catapulting stones, and “having slept more than two siestas with Medoro, a little curly-headed Moor, and page to Agramante”, Benavente Giosuè turned and darted away, leaving behind his pocket comb and a half-package of hawker’s chewing tobacco. Who are these strange oddball people? …standing on the shoulders of giants makes it all seem bigger, massive…

‘…stop that yammering. I’ve had quite enough… alright already, enough’s enough…’. Agramante, summoning up the bile from his stomach, let go with a whalestail of heady spit-up, splashing… Two siestas on the shoulders of a curly-headed Moor, silly cad bastard, what’ll he think of next. Leaving what was left behind he gambolled into the night, not once taking leave of his senses or stepping outside the five-mile fence. These are strange times, strange indeed.

Having seen all that he could see, the giant’s shoulders giving way, he clambered down and went on his way, stepping around two beggars fast asleep under the Waymart clock. ‘…the next time I’ll need bring my haversack, filled with calf’s meat and sniggled eel…’. Having been witness to the kafuffle the man in the hat returned to his lean-to, safe in the knowledge that what he’d seen today he'd never see again. ‘…how can one man, a pittance of a man at that, cause such a kafuffle…?’ he said. ‘…and without a proper hat on his dockside head…’.

No comments:

About Me

My photo
"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

Blog Archive