Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Gietijzer Apothecary

It was beginning to make sense. Weakfish and tinned salmon were undersold, halibut and whitefish oversold, the difference between the two like the distinction between the littler toe and thumb. Grande Santa fucks the Ghisa Arrabio she bought with coupons from the Gietijzer Apothecary, the weakfish jumping in the moonlit night sky. When she was a young girl her da bought her a seashell hairbrush with starfish teeth. Barry Vale (of Glamorgan) was playing on the portable record player, her seashell hairbrush tugging snags from her nettled locks. ‘weakfish are best kept frozen during transport… bellyside up’ he said. ‘and thawed only at point of delivery … not a moment before’. Her da made weakfish stew with pearl onions and greens. ‘yum’ he say smacking his lips, ‘...yum, yum’.

This is not happening. It is. It mustn’t. Outside the world raged. As if from out of nowhere a man in a tight fitting bowler levered across the sidle ways, the sky blushing blue bluer blue. ‘…stop that levering, cad…’ said the man beside the lamppost lingering, ‘…else I will have no other choice than to haul you in…’ This mustn’t happen. It is. As if from out of nowhere a man in a cheap-clothe suit walked across the sideways raging ‘stop that levering, cad…’ A woman in a Mayberry print skirt levered her flea-bitten legs one in front of the other, her hose sagging. ‘you sir… stop that infernal noising, its getting to be that a woman can’t take a morning stroll in peace’.

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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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