Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Los Violadores

‘Ŝi estas ensorĉo graveda grasa’. The Seder Grocer hired a pale skin girl to wipe down the butcher’s counter. Her belly, swollen with new life, sagged below her hips, the grocer’s stomach pinched with cardamom and lentils, the stock pot left to simmer on the stovetop. She slept with her backup against the stars, a daffodil marigold nosegay clutched gamely in her hands. ‘my but you have such pale ashen skin’ said the grocer gaping at his new hire. ‘and such beautiful red auburn hair’. ‘ensorĉo graveda grasa’ said the pale auburn new hire. ‘yes I see’ said the grocer, ‘and what a beautiful swollen belly it is’. On her hands she wore alpaca gloves with goat skin, and on her feet fish shoes with eel soles. Unsheathed he wielded his epee “which the buckler could not protect against the clownish assault (Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote) and slew the monstrous ogre. Chiclana sleeps beneath the moon-filled sky. The Mulhouse sisters sleep with both eyes open. The Celbridge sisters of county Kildare fish for curds behind the Monument Creamery. The stoutly buckler sat beneath an apricot yellow moon, his awl sheared down to tin-ash. And not a moment too soon the sky fell crashing onto their heads, each to a one jigging round the onion-board groaning. ‘ensorĉo grasa’ whispered the new hire, ‘estas graveda’. The congregates pelted Los Violadores with stones and broken bottles; expecting Los Graveda Grasa they were itching for a punch up. The Feast of the Redeemer ended with 27½ men downed by pelting and kicking, the ½ felled halfway to his knees and then onto his back. A woman in fish shoes cobbled past, her hair pulled back into a straight-pin bun. ‘my my what pale ashen skin you have’ said the stoutly buckler. ‘Ŝi estas ensorĉo graveda grasa’ bellowed the Celbridge sisters of county Kildare, the moon-filled night aglow. On the 27th day of the 7th month the Sisters of the Immaculate Deception arrived for the Feast of the Redeemer, the congregates welcoming them with outstretched arms, a child with a nosebleed holding out a nosegay of marigolds and daffodils.

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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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