Saturday, February 27, 2010

Michael Boehme (£50k)

No matter what I say you’ll think I’m lying. Written in overgenerous strokes on a sheaf of yellow paper was the following: San Bartolommeo contributed (£222.5k), Christopher Nicholson (£52.2k), Michael Boehme (£50k), Charles Brand (£25k), Brian Roper (£20k), Neil Sherlock (£20k), Susan Kramer (£15k), Richard Duncalf (£11.7k), Christopher Butler (£10.7k), Giles Wilkes (£10.25k), Richard Brindle (£10k), Stephen Dawson (£10k) and 25 members of the Hershel Liege pantomime troop (£1k)+(£2k) spot-checked from Doctor Sickly. All monies collected will be donated to the Church of the Perpetual Sinner’s 'Feast of the Lamb', to be held Saturday from 1;30-4;00 in the basement of the rectory. The late Richard Brindle and the not-so-late Christopher Butler will give the communion and sermon respectively. ‘menacing cunts!’ thought the Witness, ‘always trying to one-up we true Christians’.

A weakly sorry-looking man punted across the blacktop, a wretched-looking dog trailing behind. ‘you… yes you there!’ hollered the Witness, ‘where are you going in such a hurry?’ Not stopping or looking over his shoulder to see who was hollering at him the weakly sorry-looking man continued down the blacktop, the wretched-looking dog straggling behind him. ‘I said you sir!’ hollered the Witness, his face reddening. The frail weakly man turned, and pointing his finger at the dog said ‘can’t you see I’m in a hurry? Now get out of my way you madman you!’ ‘that thing isn’t a dog, it’s a rat’ said the Witness, ‘a fucking rat’. ‘how dare you’ said the weakly pale man, ‘step aside, I say, before I pound you into the ground you madman you’. ‘aside? …you move aside, and take that fucking ugly rat with you’ said the Witness smiling. ‘Duncalf and Wilkes will be here before you know it… then we’ll see who’s a rat’ said the weakly ashen man, the wretched weakly dog lapping up a puddle full of ox-piss. Laughing, his jowls jiggling, the Witness said ‘those two, well I’ll be damned… I haven’t seen head nor hair of them in years, momma’s boys, if I recall’.

Los Chiapas del Concordia brothers are in cahoots with the Eastleigh Hampshire boys, pounding each others’ heads into the ground with great stupendous force. They, the brothers and boys, meet every Saturday in the lot behind the Waymart, every second Friday depending on the weather, where they clobber one another into the paving. ‘menacing cunts!’ whispered the man in the hat, ‘its getting so a man can’t go out for an evening stroll without having to fear for his person’ Awakening from a night of uncharitable dreams the man in the hat set out into the day, his thoughts a swirl with sugary figs and comfits, his two favorite foods, which he usually bought from the Seder grocer, but given his state of mind, dim and chary, he bypassed the grocer and went, instead, to the Apothecary Agents round the corner from the Waymart. ‘well I’ll be damned… I haven’t seen hair nor hide of those two in ages’ said the man in the hat seeing Duncalf and Wilkes standing in front of the Waymart. ‘momma’s boys, the both of ‘em’.

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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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