Friday, August 07, 2009

Charcot’s Beret

The Redditch constabulary are on the lookout for a smarmy cunt and a two-bit con, both cunt and con having been seen in the vicinity of the Vincennes Glove Co. on the night of August 6th nineteen-hundred and aught. The newspaper headline read, “The cost of whore’s gloves has skyrocketed! Having become the accessory of choice among the gentry and simple folk alike, finding a haberdasher with a pair in stock, even a mismatched pair, is a chore indeed. And with Flag Day quickly approaching, followed by the Feast of the Comeuppance and the return of the Herstal Liege pantomime troop, all hell will surely break loose if the Vincennes Glove Co. cannot keep up with the demand for whore’s gloves, be they mismatched or in pairs”.

On the wall over the transom, just out of reach of meddlesome hands, was written ‘Pulchrum est Paucorum Hominum, áskēsis is not for the weak or faint of heart’. Having read the very same infixion on a plaque honoring the Feast of the Redeemer, the man in the hat thought nothing of it. The Altrincham Bros. of Krung Thep and the Cheshire Bros. of Bangkok met one muggy August day under the ferric-wheel in the park beside the town hall. Upon seeing one another, the sun licking the salt from their chins, the two brothers shook hands, loosened their ties and climbed aboard the ferric-wheel, the eldest Altrincham Bros. exclaiming to the youngest Cheshire Bros. ‘--acicular ferrite, and by the bushel…’ As the Cheshire Bros. were in the market for needles and pins they agreed to pay the Altrincham Bros., makers of fine needles and small-headed pins, the sort used for dress busts and kitchen windows, $27 a bushel, postage and shipping included. The Cheshire Bros., who were in cahoots with the Vincennes Glove Co., supplying them with small-headed pins and sewing needles, figured they could corner the market on haberdasher’s appurtenances, insuring their fair share of whore’s gloves.

Having never seen nor smelled a whore’s glove I fear I am in no stead to make pronouncements about them. Objects without subjects, words without meaning, its all slight-of-hand, trickery. Should you believe what I say, put trust in me, you are nothing more than a fool’s fool, a buffoon, a simpleton, an ass, a predicate without a subject. Go back to your incontinent morals and public confessions; there is nothing left to see here… move on, find someone else to amuse you, SCAT! He awoke from a disagreeable sleep, the world having changed since he last saw it, vanished, kaput, gone. Disagreeably he eased his legs from bed, unbent his knees and plopped his feet on the cold linoleum floor. ‘--so this is it, what I have to make do with…’. He slid off the edge of the bed and onto the floor, the cold linoleum bringing out the worst in him, and peered out the onionskin window, the sky blacker than Charcot’s beret, the day starting as if for the first time again.

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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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