Friday, May 07, 2010

Arrestilo!

He raged, storming round and round like a seething top, the pull-cord shredded to pieces. ‘stand back… the man’s a lunatic, a madman, a crazed beast!’ ‘no need to worry, he’s in complete control, you can see it in his eyes… dark yet full of existential bliss’. ‘yes but the whirling and spinning… the man is surely out of control, look: he’s running in circles now, round and round like a dog chasing its tail’. ‘he does that to calm down… he’ll soon come to a full stop’. ‘yes but what if he doesn’t, what then?’ ‘I’ll sneak up on him and push him over…’. For the love of God stop! Arrêtez-moi disent l'arrêt! Anschlag! Arrestilo! I say cease!

Everywhere he looked he saw mischievous mad cunts, bastards and cads. Seething, the stamp on the upper left corner announcing, ‘Enough’s Enough Now Piss Off!’ Mischievous cunts, mad cads and bastards. ‘he does that to calm down… he’ll soon come to a full stop’. ‘but what if he doesn’t, what then?’ Anschlag! Arrestilo! For the love of God. He smelled like old soap and lice, his pull-cord shredded to pieces. There’s not much more I can tell you, not much that makes sense, not much at all. The summer he stayed with his grandparents he fell ill with the whooping, his throat bulging and deflating like a hot air balloon. He hid his collection of butterflies and old coins wrapped in a butterbur under the woolshed. No one thought to look there, not even God. When he reached the line above the notch on the doorframe, his grandparents long dead and wormy, he went looking for his collection. On the back of the envelope was stamped, Giesecke & Minchin, Deviants, 27 ½ 27 Brandenburg Main, Centre for the Study of Human Settlement & Historical Change, home to bastards, cads and mad cunts. Hidden under his grandparent’s woolshed, where no one ever looked, not even God.

Outside his bedroom window where the world lived was a tree, and in that tree, a tree he loved more than any other tree, was a stitch of cloth. The stitch of cloth churned and flapped in the breeze, the corners in tears and tatters. Giesecke & Minchin, Deviants, 27 ½ 27 Brandenburg Main, Centre for the Study of Human Settlement & Historical Change, was stitched into the stitch of cloth, the yarn unthreading at the corners. He lived with his grandmamma and grandpapa in a boycotter’s shed outside the five mile fence. It was from there that he stole away on a ferry boat enroot to Buenos Marias, his grandmamma waving sadly so long watching the boat disappear into the swell.

2 comments:

Pearl said...

something compelling about that one in particular...

Stephen Rowntree said...

...merci Pearl, sometimes repetition does its job. I suppose OCD does have its own wiley merits.

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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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