Saturday, September 26, 2009

Kalisz Aldershot & Foggia Puglia

That afternoon under a broiling sun Joaquin Da Bara, great godson of Madeira Jolaño, ate a ham and spinach sandwich and a petite-forte cake. With all the noise and confusion in the streets, and there was much, no one, not even a dogman, could find a quiet place to sit and eat their lunch. Polkaed out Kalisz Aldershot and Foggia Puglia sat on a bench overlooking the aqueduct, seated next to them the great godson of Madeira Jolaño trying to eat in peaceful tranquility. ‘its getting that a man can’t find a quiet place to eat his lunch’ said the great godson, Kalisz and Foggia sitting quietly with their hands folded in their laps. ‘indeed’ said Mr. Aldershot, ‘and surely only to get worse’ added Mr. Puglia, squinting into the broiling lunchtime sun.

He lived for a time under the bridge crossing the river running round and through Mead and back. Sleeping he slept with his head pointing westward, his feet facing northeast. Kalisz and Foggia brought him rags and old cheese, wedges and scraps of this and that, things he needed but wouldn’t dare ask for. His godparents, Madeira and Stanislaus Jolaño, gave up hope of ever finding their godson when they read in the Catalane News and Chronicle about his slipping across the five-mile fence into dogmen territory; the courtier Albert Simms the last sane person to have spoken with him.

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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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