Saturday, May 15, 2010

Jørgen Coyotl Castilla

Once he finished reading The Mysteries of Boquete Chiriqui he planned to read all the books on the list, beginning with the heaviest. He figured that he could complete the list in 27 months, 28 if he fell asleep occasionally. As he’d given up shitting he figured he could read from sunrise to sunset; longer if he stopped pissing; longer yet if he gave up eating and drinking, which he wasn’t fond of anyhow, having lost his appetite and thirst months ago. He couldn’t understand why people like Sligo Spigot felt it they’re duty to live out they’re lives astride the grave. ‘San Bartolommeo is a thieving crook’ hangs over the mysterious verse above his head, ‘De Hiragana fucks Canaries whilst Ergolding watches’ a thumb’s-length to the left.

That summer Lela fell head over heel into a well. Spigot, who happened by, stopped, reached down and pulled Lela up and out of the muck, Lela covering him with bee-bitten lip kisses. Incisors clicking eyeteeth, lips swollen to twice they’re size, Lela smothered Spigot with kisses. Unable to pull himself free Spigot lurched backwards, the soles of his boots crackling. ‘I know where you live’ said Lela shifting her weight from foot to foot, Spigot gambolling to the right. ‘and I want you to know that it doesn’t matter to me’. Not knowing what to say Spigot leaned into Lela’s mouth, his corn yellow teeth sparkling in the sun. ‘anyhow my grandparents are dead, and even if they wasn’t I wouldn’t mind living in their woolshed’. That summer Spigot made love to Lela on his cot in the woolshed, her rump a swale of sweat. 'Ergolding fucks Canaries whilst De Hiragana watches, Ergolding’s gold tooth shinning like a tungsten star'. (‘surely!’ squalled the man in the hat ‘this has to stop!’) ‘canaries and pigeons?’, says Veneto Del Grappa to the muleteer, ‘shit and feathers flying every which where’ says the muleteer, his neck scored with sweat.

Jørgen Coyotl Castilla arrived by mule-cart on a Saturday, looked around, his eyes falling on a legless man arguing with a beggar over a scrap of cardboard, the beggar clubbing the legless man over the head with a stick, a fat woman with a child heading up the sideways, the child snivelling and tugging on his mother’s skirts like a feral dog, a man with a clerical collar handing out blue sheets of paper, a boy chasing a red and blue and orange ball with a stick, and a clock on a tower ticking without a small hand, the chimes choked and muffled. At exactly 27½ minutes after he arrive Jørgen Coyotl Castilla left, the mule cart rattling the cobbles. This was not an uncommon occurrence; in fact it occurred more often than not; people leaving as quickly as they arrived. For reasons unknown, and even were they known they’re credulity would be discredited as shameful, this was not a town, a place, where people felt ease and comfort. No, it was a place of frailties and unhappiness, missed opportunities and failed lives’, hunger and angst; a place where those who came and stayed came to die, a sad moaning place, a hole in the dirt, a funereal place.

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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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