Tuesday, May 18, 2010


Lodz Pabianice lives with a goat under the bridge over the Drina, the goat grazing on nimblewill and spurge. The last thing Lodz remembers before waking up under the bridge with the goat is choking on a spotted dick, his ulnar nerve a fiery cord of pain. Lodz Pabianice, onetime bon vivant, alchemist, ethicist, ethnobotanist, curer of boils and whooping, found himself halfway through life living under a bridge with a goat. A measly shame. An abomination… pubis grinding rump grinding pubis. I dare say I say? Bursting flaring like a Vela Romana. ‘sit down young man please, enough’s enough’ his da would command, the cords in his throat tightening. When he was a boy he was diagnosed with Hurling Ballismus. He would jerk violently, right arm flailing, his face roped in spittle, the right side of his body acting independent of his left.

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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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