Sunday, November 22, 2009

Fräulein Breitbach

The legless man crawled out of the ditch exhausted and none the better for wear. He was no stranger to wells and ditches; though when it came to falling he preferred ditches to wells. Clapping the dust from his pant’s legs he read the sign over the door to Consolas’s taverna, 'Enter at Your Own Hazard!' ‘I dare say I’m up to it… no truer man am I’.

He covered his hat in vark. This, he figured, would prevent the microwaves from coddling his thoughts, currying them into a soupy rue. Reif, a vark fanatic of enormous rein, cautioned him against applying too much gold skin on his head, fearing it might disintegrate his brain or cause a inoperable tumor. That winter he rented a room at the Hotel zum Blauen Kreuz, Fräulein Breitbach serving him breakfast and straightening his bed sheets. ‘deixe por favor a placa na cama’. That winter the whore’s dog died from the whooping. That summer a savant was born to a woman with pale yellow skin. That autumn she sold her savant child to a rag peddler with grey brown eyes and a cudgel foot. The North Harrogate Curates are in cahoots with the Northallerton Barbers, the twain meeting behind the Alperton Abattoir Saturdays and Wednesdays after seven. Saturday before the first snow flew one of the North Harrogate Curates found a swaddling under a faggot of sticks, the pale yellow skinned woman’s savant child bundled in oilcloth and rags. He swore he’d never let a woman steal his heart twice. ‘stay away from pale yellow skinned women’ said his mamma, ‘…they’ll crush your heart’.

Gwinnett hat das die grössten grey brown eyes… the blacks whiter than the whites. Standing cocksfooted the buckler hailed a cab, the hack stopping on the edge of a dime. Then he hailed a second third and fourth, a column of cabs queuing as far as the eye could see. ‘that’ll teach you’ he said, ‘that and a pointy stick in the eye’. The clock on the clocktower struck 7½ past the hour, the custodian screaming ‘awls well that ends well’, the sky turning red green blue and pomegranate.

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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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