Friday, August 28, 2009

Crappy Skull

That day, the day before the running of the dogs, a boy wearing a bowtie fell off his horsy and broke his busted nose. Jorge Estadística, standing nearby exclaimed ‘good god the boy’s wearing a bloodied bowtie!’ The boy yowled like a whipped dog ‘yaaaa hooooooooooo wl!’ Cecil Funcke of Basingstoke Churchdown wears his surplice inside out, saving an offering coin or two on dry-cleaning and refolding. The Basingstoke Churchdown boy’s choir sing for their supper, lunch and breakfast, the choirmaster egging them on with his baton. When he was a boy Dejesus sang in the Basingstoke Churchdown boy’s choir. Celebrated for his piercing castrato and flash blue eyes, Dejesus was a favorite among the parish fish.

‘look his nose is all bloodies’ said a boy frighteningly. ‘bloodied’ said a boy chewing on a whip of red licorice. He threw a punch that came down on top of the other boy’s head like a hammer, caving in his already crappy skull. ‘that’ll be quite enough!’ roared a man clenching his jaw. ‘you boys should be in choir practice… now git’. Both boys took flight, disappearing round the corner tumbling. That morning Dejesus laid a out a boy he’d had a fight with earlier in the day, knocking him tea kettle over arse into a mountain of apples. That day, the day after the running of the dogs, the Basingstoke Churchdown boy’s choir brokered a deal with the choirmaster, they would stay late on Wednesdays and Sundays after Mass if they could have fig cakes for supper. Agreeing, free of caveats or conditions, the choirmaster sent out for fishcakes and sodas, mishearing fishcake for fig cake and sodas for rum.

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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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