Thursday, May 20, 2010

Falcão de Sousa

‘that’s him, the one’s got boils’. His neck wept yellowy pus, a loch of yellowy pus collecting in his fob. His neck was a boil-making machine; a ditch. No matter what he did he couldn’t stop the yellowy weeping. ‘that’s him, the one’s got yellowy pus on his face’. On his forehead was written:

Den eben wo Begriffe fehlen
Da stellt ein Wort zur rechten Zeit sich ein.

[Precisely where concepts fail you,
A timely word will come to mind.]
—GOETHE, Faust I:1995–1996

Stop for the love of Christ! I’ve had quite enough! ‘the least of your concerns, sir, is the yellowy pus… your teeth are rotting in your head, and they, sir, I fear will see you dead’. Fernando António, Nogueira de Seabra, Alberto Pessoa, Christovão Falcão de Sousa, José Gomes Ferreira, Pancrácio de Pas and Dr. Chevalier met beneath the Waymart awning to discuss the rising cost of thievery. ‘I blame it on that fish bastard Goethe… he’s a crab of a man’ said Christovão Falcão de Sousa. ‘a short shrifter, too’ said Dr. Chevalier ‘never once have I seen him offer to buy a round, never!’ ‘not in this lifetime’ added Nogueira de Seabra. ‘nor the next’ interrupted José Gomes Ferreira, his face blowing up like a red balloon. His left side acted independently of his right, kilting him to and fro and fro and to. The two, to and fro, acting in harmony with one another. ‘he’s got the yellow weeping!’ hollered Pancrácio de Pas ‘smote the cunt!’ bellowed José Gomes Ferreira ‘before its too late!’ ‘stab him!’ yelled Nogueira de Seabra, ‘in the heart!’ shouted Pancrácio de Pas. ‘yes the heart!’ hollered the legless man who happened to be punting past.

Not many people came or went that day; the main street as quiet as a monk’s cell. At one time the street was bustling with activity, people coming and going, peddlers and conmen, grifters and cheapskates, peripatetic henchmen and roving hangmen, the hanged and the quartered, the poor and the wealth, a vaudevillian troop of half-mad frenzied characters, each with their own reason for being far, far away from home. There’s not much more to be said: things changed, went haywire, out of control, people fell from the sky, from the tops of buildings, the edges of cliffs and balustrades, some holding on for dear life, others letting go and laughing madly as they plummeted to the ground. Those who survived the fall became captains of industry with legions of lackey’s, some blind, others mute, each with their own disturbance and deformation, some with bent legs, others with fat bellies and blood red lips crouching beneath store awnings and behind full-busted statues, whores and pimps, cutthroats and those with their throats cut, flays of chin flesh hanging like bibs, cretins and morons, the despicable and the despised, a veritable circus of miscreants and ne’er-do-wells.

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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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