Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Nestor Sargent

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the man in the hat felt a burning pain his leg. This was not the first time a discomfit had careworn him. He concocted a concoction of salves and ointments, fulminating the wound with Rhamnousia’s palliative and Gelderland’s tonic. Arhus Risskov concocts the most mercurial unguents, filtering the concoctions through tripe and corn-fed gizzard. ‘oh but what I wouldn’t do for a Risskov’s tonic’ said the harridan to her sister. ‘goes down smoother than a pealed plum’. ‘how eager thou must be’ said her sister, ‘...begotten at Harrogate vicarage and born at Kiernan’s pub’. She slept under a blanket of tripe, gizzards tucked into her boots. We at Risskov’s swear, by Christ, we have the best tonic, bar naught. Eager for a Gelderland’s tonic she set out for Kiernan’s, her sister hot on her heels. ‘you mustn’t leave these things too long… otherwise they get stiff as whiplash’. The Harrogate vicarage keeps stock: soiled bed linen and week-old palliatives and a picture of King Olaf on the cistern wall. Nestor Sargent fell ass over teapot emptying pissbuckets for the Harrogate vicarage, his left hand sullied with other men’s drippings.

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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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