Thursday, November 05, 2009

Blue Mouldy

They whored for a fortnight and a day, backs bent double like lowly sinners. He was feeling blue mouldy for a fight, all that bucking and her throwing back her head and the smell of diaper ointment and Crum’s bleach made him navy for a fist-up. “Restitution of conjugal rights”[1] he said loudly under his breath. ‘I heard that somewhere… on the bally it was, chappy bastard laid the comeuppance on me’. Daisy’s clap prêt near slew her, all her hair and eyelashes falling out. Never can tall wend nor hew. Last time she all muss lust hen eye. …whores its cruel out: coal enough fur kittens and a cat. Pull the ole muffler ova your knows bye Jesus. When he started to think like this, in circles and strays, he knew the jig was up; it was only a matter of time before the wind would hearse him willy-nilly home, back bent-double staring starry-eyed at his shoes.

The man in the hat found a letter in the coffee can outside his lean-to awning. Still feeling blue mouldy from the night before he put the letter in his breast pocket and went about his day. On cold days he sniffed sweet ether from a takeout bag, holding in the vitriolic gas until his neck muscles bulged.

[1] Ibid

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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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