Monday, May 24, 2010

Borges Acevedo

Ticino Locarno met Sergipe Aracaju behind the bathing cabana at the rear the aqueduct. The men had come to discuss the plummeting sales of whores’ gloves. The Italian’s had cornered the market with their simple black guanti delle prostitute, the Dutch with a red kidskin whore handschoenen, the German’s monopolized the Eastern European market with their suede Dirnehandschuhe, the French the French market with an olive green and red gants de putains, the Korean’s had a lovely loose-knit 매춘부 장갑 that sold for 1,125.62 KRW, the Portuguese continued to sell 1000 upon 1000's of luvas das meretrizes, the Chinese owned most of the Asian market with a rayon 妓女手套, the Japanese a close second with a rayon cotton blend 売春婦の手袋, and of course the Spanish with a hybrid, and highly coveted guantes de las putas, which came in red, black and aquamarine.

‘vá-se foder agora,mujerzuela sucia!’ exclaimed the Argentinean glover-maker, adding ‘Serás lo que debas ser y si no, no seras nada!’ (José de San Martín). ‘Que el cielo exista, aunque mi lugar sea el infierno’. (Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges Acevedo). ‘tomorrow we will pay a visit to the Dogmen’ says Sergipe Aracaju gripping his thigh just above the knee. ‘I hear tell they’ve come up with a plan… that no glove that passes through the five-mile fence will ever make it to market, and we, Ticino Locarno, shall outwit them for it’.

Ticino Locarno leans in closer to Sergipe Aracaju, his jet black hair greying at the temples, his ears pinned back like a rabid dog’s, clears his throat and says, ‘then we can have something to eat, right?’ Leaning away from Ticino Locarno, his breath stale with cigarette smoke, Sergipe Aracaju smiles ‘yes, then we can eat I promise’. In his coat pocket he kept a scrap of paper with a poem written on it in pencil.

O man! Take heed!
What saith deep midnight's voice indeed?
"I slept my sleep—
From deepest dream I've woke and plead:—
The world is deep,
And deeper than the day could read.
Deep is its woe—
Joy—deeper still than grief can be:
Woe saith: Hence! Go!
But joys all want eternity—
Want deep profound eternity!"
(Nietzsche, Also sprach Zarathustra).

He read the poem before bed each night, stopping every so often to clear the cobble from his throat. He first came across the scrap of paper in an alleyway behind the pork butcher‘s, the paper yellowed and covered in swine entrails. Placing it in his coat pocket he headed for home, his feet troubling him since awakening that morning. He was prone to the gout, his hammertoes swelling red hot. He’d inherited the affliction from his father who suffered with it most of his life, his foot swelling to the size of a ham, his big toe to the size of a garden radish.

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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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