Tuesday, December 01, 2009

Qué Exquis

Raising the jug of Sunday Sherry to his lips Paweł said ‘qué exquis boira’. He lived in a one-room walkup overlooking the cross on top of Mount Parnassus. Raised by a dyspeptic mamma and a sot da he made his way into the world untouched by nurturing hands.

Falgce and Fluhtorh bayed at the moon, their wooly underclothes soaked in urine. Doctor Auber Castorp took the salts in the waters above the tree-line, his head swaddled in stiff linen. The bridge spanning Pont Ivy and Pont Bretagne is longer than the bridge spanning Pont Bretagne and Pont Ivy. Retracing his steps he found himself back where he began. The way back, however, longer than the way there. Upsetting God he knelt in front of the bust of King Olaf. Once lit the lamps glowed like bottled fireflies. As he was nowhere to be seen he was never seen or heard from again. He awoke with a stutter, his head a swarm of bees, the sky outside his window black with rain. ‘with God as my witness I swear I am within my means’ the Witness fell to his knee and prayed, his shirttails pooling beneath his buttocks. Decamping he left the train, his hat quivered under his arm.

“Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or honorificabilitudinitatibus?” 'beg your pardon?' said the Witness. Falgce and Fluhtorh again said “Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or honorificabilitudinitatibus?” ‘never before have I heard such nonsense’ said the Witness.

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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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