Thursday, September 24, 2009

Sycorax

Not knowing what to say the man in the hat bowed and cantered away, his heels clipping the cobbles. With all these people in town, strangers and those about whom one must remain silent, the unutterable, he felt a shiver run down his spine, his thoughts collocated into a syntactical brouhaha. The last time this many people filled the streets was the year of the first Boat Day festivities, some 10,000 arriving for a fortnight or two, the streets befouled with impecuniousness. Written with an eye for penmanship, a skill all but forgotten in these times of tic tac and paddy whack, the Deacon read the following on a piece of rectory clothe,

"In truth, captain, the manner in which you have related this remarkable adventure has been such as befitted the novelty and strangeness of the matter. The whole story is curious and uncommon, and abounds with incidents that fill the hearers with wonder and astonishment; and so great is the pleasure we have found in listening to it that we should be glad if it were to begin again, even though to-morrow were to find us still occupied with the same tale."
[1]

Mrs. Muriel Ciolkowska ordered dinner, Sycorax arriving with a cartful of viands and vegetables; the menu consisting of: spit-roasted meat, beef and oxtail, mutton, minced tartar, grilled whale, whole and cubed, whole roasted peacock in a sweet sherry and star anise poteen, internal organs, liver, kidney, pancreas and spitting glands, black pudding, and when available, blood tureen, boar's head garnished with bay and rosemary, roasted swan with vegetables, a delicate taste for a delicate palate, and for dessert spiced fruitcake followed with Montessori claret and Beefeater gin. The man in the hat, peering in through the oilcloth window, said ‘what a glutton… and the arse on her’. The day before Ship Day brought out the worst in the man in the hat, affording him with an excuse to cough up oysters of snotgreensot on whomever got in his way.
[1] Ibid

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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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