Wednesday, June 30, 2010


Attired in his brand new Wakean portmanteau, a gift from the proprietor of BullCock’s Haberdashery, he set about the day brimming. His hope quickly squashed when he came upon a man laying facedown on the kerbside, his forehead bruised purple, a yellow pallor eating away at his face, his nose hanging on by a thread, ears tethered to his jaw like crumbling petioles, a nervous tic tatting the skin around his mouth. ‘too many legumes’ he thought to himself, ‘or just plain unlucky’. He fell so hard he skinned his forehead clear down to the bone; grey brattling oozing from his skull. The man’s got a pig’s face. Last I saw him he was feeding crumbs to the pigeons, shirtsleeves rolled clear up to his shoulders. They say a man like that has a long way to fall. Never know when never know why. Just happens. BullCock’s a ripe old faggot, still has the dropsy from 100 years ago. People say he always has something up his sleeve the cunt does. Just never know what and when. Sad state of affairs as affairs go. And I seen my share I have. Now get off your horses and gimme a fiver ya cunt. Haven’t got all day. There’s pigeons to be fed.

They wether the goat, skinning it into two unquarreling halves. Looks silly stooped like that; you’d think it’d found its cud. He’s the one plays stopcock with the Aleman’s wife, damn fine sight the calves on here… naught nary a hair naught nary a vein. Clean right on down to the hackle, smooth as a yam. Gets one to thinking, what’re the odds of that? What’re the chances? Makes a man wonder. Now BullCock’s, there’s a ripe old faggot, all flabby and loose round the neck, could make an ascot of it. Straight out, I told ‘em I’d take the withers if he grabbed the haunches, best way I know to spill the head from the flank. Not a word of a lie, I seen my fair share I told ‘em. BullCock’s… pulls tripe like taffy, brooding pigeons alight on his shoulders. Last I saw him he was facedown on the kerbside, nose hanging on by a thread. Ripe cunt that cunt BullCock’s, yellow pallor eating away at his face. They say a man like that has a long way to fall. Long time since I felt obliged... prayers don’t come easy to god-fearsome half-men like me.

(Skin the goat hasn’t a care in the world). The man in the hat awoke with a start. The sun sitting low in the noontime sky told him that it was past 9 o’clock, the time he customarily arose from his embedment. Joseph Benedikt and Karl Frailer von Eichendorff met the day before the Feast of the Assumption, neither man having set eyes upon the other before that day. Upon meeting one another Dr. Benedikt, a doctor of the lower extremities, said to von Eichendorff ‘I see you wear a mechanical timepiece. Might I have a gander?’ Karl Frailer von replying toothsomely, as he was a man of fastidious oral hygiene, ‘why yes of course… and by all means take your time, it is a watch after all’. Heir doctor Joseph Benedikt held the timepiece up to his eye, ‘a fine piece indeed. Might I inquire as to its maker?’ ‘the Cowes Brothers, acquaintances of my dearly and recently departed wife’.

No comments:

About Me

My photo
"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz

Blog Archive