Sunday, August 30, 2009

The Smock's Beshit

Haskell O’Casey tightened his grip around Phil Villefontaine’s neck, his face turning plum purple. MacFlecknoe and Funcke ganged up on Collofino Olbrich, Collofino teetering left and right, Dejesus hollering ‘stoolie bastard!’ Stanton, O’Casey yanking him left and right, yowled like a kicked dog, ‘it wasn’t me, I swear!’ A mist appeared out of nowhere, ‘scat bastard!’ hissed Abe Abingdon’s ghost, ‘…always had your hand in the till’. ‘kill the bastard!’ crowed the cock, its coxcombs standing on end. Not one to miss out on a good opportunity, Marjorie O’Casey jabbed Villefontaine in the eye with a stick, a cockscomb of blood spackling her newly washed dress. Teetering Villefontaine fell ass over kettle, his nose splayed across his cheekbones like a maple tree seed pod. As he fell swooning to his knees Villefontaine paid homage to the Debauchee of Rochester,

By all love's soft, yet mighty powers,
It is a thing unfit,
That men should fuck in time of flowers,
Or when the smock's beshit.

Fair nasty nymph, be clean and kind,
And all my joys restore;
By using paper still behind,
And sponges for before.

My spotless flames can ne'er decay,
If after every close,
My smoking prick escape the fray,
Without a bloody nose.

If thou would have me true, be wise,
And take to cleanly sinning,
None but fresh lovers' pricks can rise,
At Phyllis in foul linen.

(John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester)

Dorset and Rogaland met Eschborn under the bust of King Olaf to discuss what was to be done with the scoundrel orange merchant Villefontaine. ‘oranges are God’s fruit’ said Rogaland, ‘...not some mammy ambry child’s soother’. ‘right you are my dear friend’ added Dorset, ‘…nor are they to be taken lightly…’ ‘…or eaten like a slob prince’ interrupted Eschborn. King Olaf’s skirt stuck out like a broken thumb, the folds in his sash snaking round his legs and torso. ‘that hardhead O’Casey’ll lay a beating on the bastard Villefontaine’ said Rogaland. ‘fuck him up to next Wednesday’ said Eschborn, Dorset’s lips trembling with anger. Rogaland hung his arm over King Olaf’s shoulder, resting his hip against the King’s thigh. ‘merchant of spoil’ laughed Eschborn, Dorset joining in with a thundering guffaw.

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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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