Sunday, July 25, 2010

Garrulous

I’d rather turn Turk than hold another lice-comb. Clowns and ferry’s, soiled shit-on sheets, pissy, bled through to the last thread. If I had a mind to I’d fuck the lot of ‘em; always complaining about coarse skin and yellow fingernails, always on the heads-up for a good handjob! Save time and hang the lot of ‘em, sideshow freaks, tongues wagging. ‘leme me down… I promise never ta shit again, I’m begging you please!’

She spent her honeymoon in Nolan Falls backcombing lice out of her hair, her husband jacking-off under the bed moaning. ‘same thing always happens. No one speaks about it. Its like it never happened, like a fairytale… or a museum’. I promise I’ll never shit again, I’m begging you please… If I had a mind to I’d stomp the lot of ‘em. Its getting perilous round here… wouldn’t you say? … just thinking… My opine means shit! Don’t you mean opinion? Never been surer in my life. I’d rather turn Turk. Least ways you get a good meal. I’m petitioning you… please, I’m beginning to get lightheaded! Its only a matter of time now; and common sense. Shitted-on and shoved under the bed… turned inside out. I’m petitioning you; and the heat, unpardonable and humid. Almost pissy, almost. Pissier things, I suppose, have been done in the name of glory. Tongues wagging: for the love of God I’m getting heavy-headed! I do I I’m petitioning you, begging please stop, stop before its too late! Its getting so a man can’t find a minute’s peace round here. Garrulous they call it: garrulous.

Sunday July 25 2010

A Dublin man has appeared in court over the manslaughter of James Joyce, the 20-year-old who was stabbed in Swords, Co Dublin, on Thursday. A man resembling a dog was remanded in custody after a brief appearance before Dublin District Court. Detective Garda Nolan Falls told the court that the man had made no reply when charged.

Sunday Independent

‘Oh dear’ thought the man in the hat. ‘what next?’ Forgetting to collect his cap that morning he pulled his collar up over his ears and rushed along the sideways like a man late for his own funeral, the sun swaddling the top of his head. ‘Oh dear at this rate I’ll never make it there on time’.

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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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