Thursday, February 25, 2010

Scáth Oilc

Scáth Oilc hasn’t a pot to piss in. He pisses in the trough with the ox’s. The day he was run out of town he ran faster than an ox. He ran and ran. He ran past the Waymart past the Seder Grocers past the Dogman Deli, once owned by the Greek, until his lungs felt like they would burst. He waved at Cão Santarem, formerly of Newcastle now Newcastle upon Tyne, and blew a kiss at Lela, who was admiring a lard box in the window of the Dogman Deli. He ran until running away from and to ran into each other. ‘running is a boy’s sport’ said the Witness, ‘whithersoever he runs hw r-s- v r, w he is going…’. “God grant I may see thee dumb before I die…” (Don Quixote) said the Witness grumbling.

He ordered a tincture of smear of castor with a mild epagogic. The night before the Feast of the Unchaste Dejesus anointed his legs and arms with machinist’s oil and tin shavings. This he did to repel the unclean and miserable, finding their measly presence off-putting. ‘makes his toilet in an ox-trough, so I’ve heard!’ Dejesus had little patience for puny feeble people, the more frail and toady they were, the more he despised them. ‘its getting so that a man of keen intellect can’t move an inch without pitching into a slavering imbecile’. Included in the imbecilic and silverrods were the Witness, the harridan’s sister, a small tetchy man with a spotty eye and the tart who sold gum powder behind the Waymart. ‘menacing cunts!’

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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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