(He’s a yobbo, the wee tit). Awaking, corseted in white linen, the odor of Villefontaine headcheese, wheeled by the Rhone-Alpes friars, shipped by the Eltham Bros. of North Victoria and purchased with Goodwill stamps from the Greek Deli, stilling the air, Lela reaches for her hair brush, a gift from her grandmamma on the occasion of her first communion.
All things that sink to the bottom float to the surface. In time. A.J. Bergen of Hordaland county, a stones’ throw from Didcot county, barks day-old wafers from the back of an oxcart, the wheels stuck fast in the morning dewed mud. Hawking, he yells ‘…Oxfordshire wafers, a guinea a piece 5 for a pound…’.
Walking by the man in the hat stops, and turning to face A.J. Bergen says ‘…what a funny man you are, from what I can see…’. ‘…back off my dear man…’ growls the barker Bergen, his face reddening. Turning southward towards the aqueduct, where a child’s birthday party is in full swing, children bounding and skipping every-which-where, the man in the hat walks away, the sky redder than a basketful of bashed in tomatoes.
(He’s a tit, the wee yobbo). His great massive head pushed into the pillow he falls sleeping to bed. He dreams of Lela’s childlike face, her hair twisted into pig’s tails; opening her legs she gestures for him to come nearer; he climbs astern her, his cheeks pushed into the hard bones of her chest. That’ll be enough of that she squibs, her back arching like a taut bow.
All things that sink to the bottom float to the surface. In time. A.J. Bergen of Hordaland county, a stones’ throw from Didcot county, barks day-old wafers from the back of an oxcart, the wheels stuck fast in the morning dewed mud. Hawking, he yells ‘…Oxfordshire wafers, a guinea a piece 5 for a pound…’.
Walking by the man in the hat stops, and turning to face A.J. Bergen says ‘…what a funny man you are, from what I can see…’. ‘…back off my dear man…’ growls the barker Bergen, his face reddening. Turning southward towards the aqueduct, where a child’s birthday party is in full swing, children bounding and skipping every-which-where, the man in the hat walks away, the sky redder than a basketful of bashed in tomatoes.
(He’s a tit, the wee yobbo). His great massive head pushed into the pillow he falls sleeping to bed. He dreams of Lela’s childlike face, her hair twisted into pig’s tails; opening her legs she gestures for him to come nearer; he climbs astern her, his cheeks pushed into the hard bones of her chest. That’ll be enough of that she squibs, her back arching like a taut bow.
No comments:
Post a Comment