Tuesday, April 06, 2010

On the Umbilicus

They fornicated on their knees, inching closer nearer the midway. ‘regard them’ said the butcher, ‘they are the animals we have been told about’. His papa wore his trousers back to front, the buttons digging into his penis. ‘papa’ he would holler, ‘your pants are on backwards’. ‘keeps a fish afloat’ his papa would answer. ‘north side wall up to the ceiling’. Of this I recall little. Beastly animals! They yell. Kill the beast! They holler. Smite it dead! He nay can sleep. Never been one for twenty winks: damn hard on the umbilicus… so it is. Never know when a lad has to go twenty with a puncher, sorry sight all that mangled flash, head bashed in pointy as a lynching cross. Last time he saw his da he was pulling up his trousers hind the Pub, nearsighted he was… no difference between an arse and an elbow. Sad state of affairs I’d say I said. And him without a tosspot. I prefers my commode sitting, beard of shit shaving the bowl. That night the man in the hat bought a pork sandwich… offal smell of halitosis soaked into the brine. Closer to the halfway, midway there by now I’d say I said. Course no ones listening, paying heed takes courage and a closed mouth. Can’t expect much from beasts and fornicators.

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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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