Saturday, July 18, 2009

Curitiba Parana - Fistfighter

Having not given it a second sober thought, as sober thoughts, whether striking at the core of the issue or simply striking the surface, were a waste of time... anyhow sober thinking was highly overstated.

The publican bleats, reckoning ‘--last call, ye weary cunts ye’. Having witnessed little that day the Witness packed up his ink-trunk and headed for home, a coil of commode tissue heeled to the soul of his shoe, sad cunt. ‘--I said last call, ye fucking cunts …and I’m meaning it, ye I am!’ Across from the bar, seemingly unaware of the publican’s order, sat Curitiba Parana, fist-fighter and regular at the los Bariloche de Tachira San Cristbal, twirling the tips of his great black moustache. ‘--sir I have asked you twice, now please lave!’ said the publican firmly. Turning, his great black moustache curling upwards, Curitiba Parana said ‘--I am a clean man, I assure you that dear sir, now fuck off’. At this the publican, the veins in his forehead throbbing, stepped out from behind the bar, and elbowing his way past pub vagrants and travelers stood squarely in front of Curitiba Parana, his fists clenched into doughy balls (from one too many punch-ups with the unseemly customers), ‘--listen hear ye cunt, I’m a fair man, with God as me witness, but when I says its closing time ITS CLOSING TIME!’ puffing out his chest, the publican added ‘--now kindly git your arse off my seat, ye cunt’.

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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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