Sunday, March 07, 2010

Mrs. Breen

(The Glamorgan boy is in cahoots with the Leighton Buzzard brothers, all three, as there is but one Glamorgan boy, fighting it out under the weight-scale beneath the Bedfordshire clocktower).

He fell from such a great height that he broke all his teeth and all his legs. All those splintery bones. His da said he’d amount to nothing. Now its too late. When he started to think like this the man in the hat opened his throat and spat, an oyster of spittle cobwebbing the Seder grocer’s awning. After the Hotel Belmont he took up residence in an old folk’s home, the head matron cursing him for being such a louse.

Her shoulders and arms were covered in benday dots, her armpits a hanging garden of moles and tags. I told you to stay clear of her! Now look what she’s done, covered you in warts and cobwebbing! Little did he know that he would find peace and solitude in her arms. And those buzzard boys, what a slight on the eyes. Glam organ’s, least they have the good sense to wear galoshes. He had little patience for open throats and cobber. ‘atrociously hideous’ he said. ‘like a raisin pie gone sour’. Mona met Millie, known for her soft-shell shoes, under the Waymart clocktower to serve notice of her decision to leave the church choir. Why such inanities? The world is full of bigger ideas, surely I could do better. Mrs. Breen met Silvina Acampo and Bustos H. Domecq under an umbrella she had brought specially for the occasion. The sun that day was brighter than a geniuses’ cortex, nary a cloud in the blue sky. ‘I had thought of bringing some organ meats with me but left before I could remember why and where I was going’. ‘no need to worry, we have plenty of food’. ‘basketfuls’. ‘bushels’. ‘oh good, I felt so ridiculous, you see I am not one to forget things, and this, I dare say, was a terrible oversight’ ‘please sit down… there’s plenty of room for all of us under the umbrella’. His throat constricted then went flat, his mouth gulch-dry. I say there, you, yes you, what have you to say for yourself? It was here fault he said pointing at Silvina Acampo, she said it was okay that I be here. Nonsense! Look at her shoes, they’re ghastly. Bib him and get him out of here. I can’t stand to look at him.

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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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