Sunday, February 14, 2010

los Diccionario de Putas

In the summer kitchen his grandmamma made winter pies, serving them with sweet onions and royal beets. That summer Sligo Spigot visited his grandparents. His grandmamma had a stitch in her side for Spigot, never allowing him through the front gate. Whenever he came to visit he stood on the other side of the gate, his hands flailing wildly over his head. ‘I have a message from the chemist’ he hollered, ‘an important one’. ‘go away now’ said grandmamma, ‘you’re not welcome here’. ‘but its important’ yelled Sligo Spigot, hands thrashing. ‘I don’t care’ said grandmamma, ‘now go away’. ‘but its from the chemist’ he said moving slowly towards the gate, grandmamma tightening her grip on the porch rail. ‘which one?’ asked grandmamma hesitantly. Edging closer, his head crooked to one side, Sligo Spigot said ‘the one’s got the boils on his face…’. ‘the Bagenalstown one’ said grandmamma loosening her grip on the rail. ‘yogh that’s him’ said Sligo Spigot, his voice lowering an octave. ‘well I have no business with him’ said grandmamma sternly, ‘now go away. Grandmamma, exhausted and short on charity, hurried up the porch stairs and into the house, Sligo Spigot entreating her ‘that’s him, the one’s got boils’.

Leafing through los Diccionario de Putas he came across a picture of three women eating an apple, the prettiest woman resigned to the millstone of her beauty. The other two woman, one unobjectionably fat, the other dressed in a gossamer white linen dress, cajoling the prettiest woman, daring her to take the first bite.

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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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