Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Jêves Étuénie

Falling he tumbled backwards, the seat of his trousers snagging on a nail. ‘damn hell!’ he yowled, the nail having pierced his buttocks. ‘bloody circus people never clean up after themselves… godless heathens’. Brushing the dirt from his greatcoat, the inside pocket turned out, he sat on half a buttock, blood trickling down his pant’s leg and onto his feet. The Witness hated the circus. He hated with all his spleen. Jêves Étuénie sold the Witness an axe sharper than a stropped razor. Ostend and Ostergotlands planned to commandeered a boatload of silk on route to the Gotaland Haberdashery in Gotaland on main. Overhearing Treviso and Cagliari talking about the heist the Witness took up his axe and headed for the park behind the aqueduct. ‘I have nothing to fear’ said the Witness hurrying, ‘I will take them out at the knees and cut out their spleens’. Little did he know but the axe he’d bought was split down the middle, the handle ready to splinter in two. He hated pigeon stealers as much as he hated the circus. Nailed over the door to the Gotaland Haberdashery were the following epitaphs, their raison d'être a mystery to all who entered:

Could I command rough rhimes and hoarse, to suit that hole of sorrow
(Dante, the Divine Comedy, Inferno)

Here, look at me! Look at me, the whole world, the whole of Christendom.
(Nikolai Gogol, The Inspector General)

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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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