Saturday, October 03, 2009

Gravesend Loghall

He rebuffed Cardiff for being rebarbative, bastard sot. It won’t be long now before the sky falls wilily, staving in the refractor on your headlamp. A real smash up. Last time this happened was at the Gravesend loghall. Sad sot bastard Cardiff slighted by that slick cunt in the sou'wester. Not a dry eye the house; soiled the carryall of his swaddling. Sad sight it was indeed was.

He read about whorish things in los Journal des Fefita, the opening sentence lambasting couture and calfskin. ‘I’d give a week’s pay to get a look at that’ he said with a snub. He slept under the Ormskirk bridge along side the Qahirah Bros., sleeping in well past the noontime. ‘mad hatters… the two of ‘em!’ When the clock struck three he scurried mouse-like into the rain, lumbering madly, the poor sod, in the puddles forming in the street. Staring in the grocer’s window she gored off-rashers and yellow-yolks packed in wicker baskets. She had a caper for rashers, the yellow-yolks, they turned her stomach out. “To those who have but little brain.”

Los Ciboria Bros. own the last pair of whore’s gloves made by the Vincennes Glove Co. Women’s haberdasheries béing in low supplié he felle balkars inrô the night, trepanned on his monceau skirt. The world coming into being frame by frame, Dejesus bought a half-pound of porker’s ham and a jar of Gibb’s hard mustard, his lap a harvest table upon which he spread his noontime supper.

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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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