Saturday, April 17, 2010

Grigory Poincaré

He stood his ground, one phantom leg astride the median, javelins of grass shooting up through the mud-splattered concrete. ‘have you no conscience?’ he said, ‘you who think faith a gambol and a foist’. It would only be a matter of time before the whole shooting match disbanded, each to his own heading back from whence they came. When no one spoke, which they did mutely, he yelled at the top of his lungs ‘then fuck you all!’ Hopping from one phantom leg to the other he foisted his way down the street, the veins in his throat bulging.

The first time he met Grigory Poincaré he was hunkered over a bowl of soup, specks of meat and carrots floating on the surface like drowned men. Having arrived early he had been the first to be ushered in through the weighty oak-framed doors of the soup kitchen. Grigory Poincaré lived in a boycotter’s house with a caved-in roof. The house looked like his grandpapa’s but for the cardboard flaps hanging in shreds from the transom and windowsills. ‘I’m feeling bone flaccid’ he said, his ears red as halved pomegranates. The day of the Feast of the Unfaithful Grigory Poincaré bought half a sow and three yellow succulent melons, cooking the half sow over an open pit, the fat spitting and hissing on the red coals, and slicing the melons into smile-like pieces, enough to fill the biggest maw. For the toothless he made a boar hash seasoned with green peppercorns and black fennel.

‘i have blak marks on my nick and between my legs how can i get red of them?’ beseeched a fatly woman weeping. ‘yes’ said a stout portly man holding his head high, ‘but the Liver Is the Cock's Comb’. Her legs bowing like cobble sticks, the weeping fatly woman said a second time ‘i have blak marks on my nick and between my legs how can i get red of them?’ Sherman Arshile hanged himself in his woolshed 46, or was it 44 days after the Feast of the Blest Virgin. Poor swaying sod. Sherman Arshile, a slight man with sharp equine features and green peppercorn eyes, lived out his lonely life in the woolshed behind his grandparent’s house. Having soiled and sullied the inside of the shed, his grandparent’s refused to have anything to do with it; stowing their garden tools, potting pots, dirt, flats and clippers in the boot-room leading out the back door of their house.

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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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