Friday, November 20, 2009

Caballo de Pegamento

Painted in white lye on the guardrail he read:

And sought renown on Rocinante mounted;
Here, underneath this cold stone, doth he lie
. (Ibid)

How odd indeed he thought: a Spanish ne’er-do-well and a Caballo de Pegamento. Never shall the twain meet. Vilém de Flossier rides sidesaddle, his rump galloping across the open plains. A man of such gainful abilities need never explain a thing. They drank tic-tac under a jaundice yellow moon, gulping and eructating like sniggling pigs. ‘there aren’t many horses like yours left in the world’. ‘and those few there are are fit for the pegamento factory’. Brushstroked on the back wall of the Consolas’s taverna he read:

A man’s house is his Consolas’s; Here
Doth he lie underneath this cold stone
.

Doffing his cap he doth act like a maudlin fool. Ne’er-do-well, his manner and gallop is fit for a gabber. Men like him cantor not, preferring rump galloping across the open plains. Under the stable-post he kept a pot of glop for riposting the stiles, the glue-brush stiff sticky and wiggly loose. ‘Gwinnett hat das die grössten areolas’ offered the post-digger. ‘and my leben but she is sweet’ added the ne’er-do-well.

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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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