Tuesday, March 09, 2010


He awoke covered in a cobweb of his own sweat, the undersides of his arms and legs spit wet. Having awakened earlier than usual he decided to smoke a filter tip and make it a day. He exhaled a blue tail of smoke, his head bludgeoned into the headboard, the sulfur from the match smarting his eyes. Remember Mulvey? Over her bed over the headboard on the wall she had written: “Parents live on. Unresolved dissonances in the relation of the character and disposition of the parents continue to reverberate in the nature of the child, and constitute his inner sufferings”. (F.W. Nietzsche). Strange she was that Mulvey. ‘stop talking in circles. Now stop it now!’ Her da, a merchant seamen, circumcisioned the globe collecting sexual diseases along the whey. He was covered in boils from head to toe, cankers as big as your hand. ‘circles, your talking in circles!’ I can’t stand to look at him. Bib him and get him out of here. Covered in them he was. The undersides of his legs and arms. He tried to grab hold of the glove but the glove soared higher, disappearing over the horizon. ‘in circles’. J. S. Crumlish lives in a cardboard box under the bridge over the aqueduct. He has three toes on his left hand, replacing the fingers he lost in an accident. Never know when the underneath will fall out: the worst isn’t all that bad. J. S. was overcome with grief. It isn’t what you think: really. Hit the ground damn hard: upper plate fell out. The rooftops are slippery, given the inclimate weather. Sat on top of the chimney: figuring he could tell which direction the sky would fall. Came close a few times. Worst of it was the toes on his left hand: the accident saw to that. Covered in them he was. That Mulvey: sometimes slept next to Crumlish on a scrap. Can’t say as I blame her, the weather, as it is, being inclimate.

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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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