Sunday, July 12, 2009

Salt tempered Bellies

Looking over the way, past the cod factory where the women slit salt-tempered bellies, the scales flaking onto their blue coveralls, beyond the one-mile fence beyond, he saw a boy bouncing a blue and red ball, his legs shimmying like billiard sticks.’--they blindfold the horses before they put them down, clams ‘em a bit…’ said Mrs. Simms to Mr. Simms, her mouth turned down at the corners like a dinner napkin. ‘…my dear don’t you mean calms?’ asked Mr. Simms. ‘--no clams my dear Mr. Simms, clams’. ‘…well that is most peculiar indeed Mrs. Simms, and coming from a woman with a sturdy command of the English language’. ‘--no need to worry my love, it’ll all be well…’. ‘…in good time?’ asked Mr. Simms. ‘--yes my dear Mr. Simms, in good time’. ‘…and not a moment before’ added the barrister, ‘…nary eh’.

Swooning, a gull paused to lay an egg in of Mrs. Simms’ head. ‘--I’ve been assaulted, Mr. Simms!’ Switching the direction of his gaze, his eyes set about a young lass twilling a lock of her golden hair, the Barrister Simms said ‘…no need to worry Mrs. Simms, its only an egg, and a fine round one at that’. ‘--well then, knock it off, its making me feel most peculiar!’ pleaded Mrs. Simms. Hidden behind a woman making her toilet, her skirts pulled up over her round belly, the man in the hat let go with a mild though announced titter. ‘--strange lot, them’ he said whispering, the woman making her toilet grunting, ‘--and not a tosspot to piss in’. Were it not for the woman making her toilet grunting, her skirts pulled up over her round belly, the man in the hat would have let go with a rounding guffaw; but as any sharp twilling noise might startle the commoving woman, sending a rooster tail of warm piss all over his person, he kept his rounding to himself, clearly wishing not to be assailed with a bowsprit of warm womanly piss. …birds besieging cats, muleteers besieging mules, women besieging… These things occur more oft than naught, so they do. Having finished her toilet the woman hiked her skirts up round her waist and hightailed it northward, a warm inviting smirk on her womanly face. The man in the hat couldn’t help but think, ‘--my what a fine specimen of a woman indeed, and fatter than a skinner’s mule’. The sky turned inside out, baring its soiled under clothes. In due time Mrs. Simms, in due time. But I fear the worst Mr. Simms. No worse, I’d say, than a party of crows besieging a cat, poor beast. But the egg, Mr. Simms, flick it off my head, I can’t take a moment more. Besieged the barrister Simms flicked the egg tumbling, a spot of yolk forming a perfect circle on the ground before his feet. ‘--indeed what a fine round egg, Mrs. Simms; and such a bright yellow yolk’.

Most mornings the man in the hat awoke unsettled, his thoughts skid addling in his head. Having witnessed his fair share of calamity, he felt it only proper that he reward his good nature with the purchase of a new hat. As his posture was slightly askew he lifted one leg over the other, bending evenly at the waist, and pulled his trousers on two legs at a time; a practice he had become accustom to since his feet had begun to turn inwards like cudgels, his ankles swollen red and bursting. Today he would buy a new hat, most certainly, then set out in search of the harridan’s sister who word had it was looking for Dejesus who had a bone to pick with the Witness who was busy printing new pamphlets in red, blue and yellow ink. But the egg is still on my head, Mr. Simms, is it not? Stop you’re worrying Mrs. Simms; the night is still young and so are the eggs. With that the barrister Simms and his wife set out a second time on their morning walk.

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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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