Monday, August 09, 2010

Grupo Rojo

And then, not a second before then, los Grupo Rojo, under the banner of Proceso de Reorganización Nacional Montoneros, came rushing into his thoughts, Solar Ramón, and that salacious cunt El Tío, stepping off the plane and onto the tarmac, Guerra Sucia sitting like a beaten child in front of him bawling. ‘this is outlandish!’ he said to himself, not quite sure who himself was. Solar Ramón will steal the teeth right out of your mouth, then break your jaw just for the fun of it. Kékes, poor bastard’s never seen a snatch up close; says its too soon to tell if the sky’ll fall before breakfast, eats eggs like a preacher, mouthful after mouthful, never once giving into the yolk. The Macclesfield Armorists’ stood two-abreast the arroyo awaiting the lowering of the flag, Captain Cheshire chewing the grist of his thumb. His thoughts rambled, hobbling the inside of his skull. He stopped for a café au lait, taking in the morose performances of the coffee-drinkers and their hangers-on’s, each one more morose and indefatigable than the next. He slurped back the coffee, now tepid and undrinkable, and placed the now empty cup on the grainy wood in front of him, his thoughts rattling. ‘descabelar o palhaço’ he said loud enough for all to hear, and walked out the front door and into the street.

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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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