Thursday, December 03, 2009

Nâzım Çerkes and Pieter Madly

Pieter Madly swats flies with the Op Ed page of his newspaper, a butchery of guts and wings scabbing his fingertips. Forlorn he goes about his day wondering when the sky will fall. The sky will fall regardless of his wont of the contrary. Nâzım Çerkes, renowned for his passionate undertakings, sat under the bust of King Olaf, the sun dappling his russet brown face. ‘never before have I witnessed such a shameful display of humanity’ said Çerkes to Pieter Madly, both men facing the northernmost corner of the rectory spire. ‘I concur, most certainly’ said Pieter Madly swatting a fly from the bulb of his cauliflower-shaped nose. ‘I dare say the end will come soon…’ said Nâzım. ‘…and none too quickly’ interrupted Madly swatting. ‘but of course there is a way out’ said Çerkes matter-of-factly. ‘and?’ asked Pieter Madly inquisitively. Clearing the rails from his throat Nâzım Çerkes said ‘the missing whore’s glove…it, pray tell, holds the secret to the delivery of humankind from madness and immorality’. Looking on on fire with curiosity Pieter Madly said ‘and where, pray tell, do we find this miraculous glove?’ Clearing the rails from his throat a second time Nâzım Çerkes said ‘that, my dear friend, is a long troubling story’. ‘will you tell me… please do?’ asked Pieter Madly, a second fly alighting on the bulb of his cauliflower-shaped nose buzzing. ‘yes, but first let me tell you the story of the missing whore’s glove’ said Nâzım Çerkes, his own nose abuzz with guts and wings.

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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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