Friday, August 13, 2010

Złolton ₤owther

Âmapanada Del Amour sits facing the Seder grocer’s window, her hair pulled back into a nosegay. Next to her sits a girl in a yellow cotton dress, her fingers worrying the beads of her rosary. Across from the girl in the yellow cotton dress sits the littlest dogman, his chest puffed out like an courting ɡraʊs. Walking passed on his way home the man in the hat gives the littlest dogman an stern look, the littlest dogman smiling broadly from ear-to-ear. ‘menace’ says the man in the hat. ‘its getting so a girl can’t worry her beads without having to turn her back on the world’.

The night he met Âmapanada Del Amour the sky was as black as the inside of a storm lantern; snowflakes eddied like kicked dandelions, the smoke from the coke oven smarting their eyes, and in the pew across from them, sitting next to his mamma, £. Q. Beiträge snickering at the spilt wine on the rector’s dress, and sitting in the front pew across the aisle €von ¥olanda and Złolton ₤owther, €von working her rosary like an abacus, Złolton making a pocking sound with his mouth, the rector giving them the eye of the lamb, £. Q. busting a stitch, his mamma tugging plaintively at his shirt sleeve. That night, the lamps flickering like drunken fireflies, the moon shimmering like a Christly halo, he slid his hand beneath Âmapanada Del Amour’s skirts, the milk-softness of her nethermost trembling his fingers.

Blimunda, now there’s a real looker, stork long legs and lips like smashed cherries. The Harpsichordist Bartolomeu de Gusmão creeps between her legs supping, her Mons Venus moaning. José de Sousa Lourenço, Mons Venus my love my dear my Mons. ‘stop! I beseech you stop!’ beseeches Złolton ₤owther. ‘stop your sniveling’ scolds £. Q. Beiträge.

José “Pepe” Conteris likes boiled mutton, his jowls bobbing as he masticates chin-size pieces of meat. Leave it to a no-good fool to make a mockery of chin-food. May as well pin the tail on the ass; either way the fool will fight the fool until the end is née. The man in the hat swooned, his head full of nonsense and blather. When he felt the swooning coming on, which it did, it did, he knew that he had been thinking too much; and when his thoughts crowded in on his life he knew it was time to sit quietly without moving an inch. Snivelers and no-good fools, they filled his head with nonsense; enough to make a man reevaluate his place in ‘it all’. Nonsense!

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