Monday, November 02, 2009

Dorset Conurbation

Mostly he liked it when the circus came to town in the middle of July when the sky stayed light past ten o’clock. That way he could see jumping up and down from the back seats behind the tent flap. His granddad sat at the front clacking his tongue and making the face of Jehovah, his grandmamma hiding behind her handbag writhing. On account of she had a bad heart she had to be careful not to let her temper get the best of her and snap one of the veins in her neck. His great-granddad recited The Rape of the Lock before and after lunch,

What dire Offence from am'rous Causes springs,
What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things,

his face a mess of busted vessels and eyesores. His grandmamma grew up in the Bournemouth Dorset Conurbation, her own mamma reading Poe’s The Sleeper before and after breakfast,

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim

the breeze in the curtains wildly flapping. Wymore Tregonwell the apothecary agent dispensed to Mrs. Elmira Clemm a stool softener, and to Ms. Virginia Royster a mild epagogic. The imbecile Sphären delivered tinctures and tablets by bicycle, stopping every so often to retie his shoe or take a piss. He watched him from his bedroom window gliding effortlessly down the street in front of his house, sidesaddle stuffed with vials and little boxes, his cock crowning through his open fly, old lady Tregonwell covering her face in horror.

[1] Alexander Pope, The Rape of the Lock
[2] Edgar Allan Poe, The Sleeper, 1831

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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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