Thursday, July 16, 2009

Los Bariloche de Tachira San Cristbal

Where the mouth of the great river spills into the coal-black sea, nestled away in a Dantean paradisio, sits the Saint Edmunds Nunnery, the Sisters of the Annunciation tending the Huguenots gardens left despoiled and fallow in the eighteen hundreds. Not far off, no further than the crow flies, los prostitutas de Bariloche de Tachira San Cristbal lure man and beast to their watery death. If one looks hard enough one can see wax corks floating like shrunken jellyfish in the waters surrounding los Bariloche de Tachira San Cristbal; a warning to man and beast that beauty and death are often times indistinguishable. ‘--utter nonsense!’ cried the Witness, ‘--the Huguenots never dared set foot anywhere near the Saint Edmunds Nunnery’. His pique serving to enflame the Witness, setting him off on an angry diatribe, Dejesus sat back and listened, his ears stopped with corked wax.

The Zadar bros. cobble Arco Orthopedic Slippers from the boot of their lorry; the eldest brother Zagrebacka, known for his temper and low values, commanding brothers Staden and Kobenhavn, each of whom have the wit of a seven year-old. The Holland bros. of Wicklow convene behind the Bray pump-house next to a billboard for the Monument Creamery, renown for its epic cream and assorted dairy products. The Keen bros., originally from Copenhagen but now running a vast tinned smelts empire from an outpost a stone’s throw from the Los Cipolletti bros. of Rio Negro who own and operate a casa putas with de Bariloche sisters, the eldest sister having a crush on Kobenhavn, regardless of his slow wittedness and unkempt appearance, having little patience for lollygaggers and racketeers, the brothers themselves having been raised by two such cunts.

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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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