Monday, September 27, 2010

Foil’s Tonic

Horning, she’s got horning on her ‘thing’. Ringkobing horning with feathers and cactus lace. But mamma I can’t. You will, by God you will! But I can’t; it hurts. ‘it’s suppose to hurt!’ you silly cow! Get to bed and be quick about it! His woolly gray socks scratched her legs, the studs on his denim blue trousers leaving rivet-marks on her belly. Funny how he never once kissed her on the cheek, never ever. She stopped at F.W. Sweny’s Apothecary, the smell of ripening figs and Foil's Tonic pickling her nose. ‘I’ll take a bar of linseed soap. The lemony one please’. She laid a fistful of coppers on the counter, counting them in twos, separating the tarnished ones from the shiny ones. ‘that should be enough. Say, have you seen a man with Stilton blue eyes?’ The apothecary agent gave her a cagey stare, the back of her head squared with the snuff self. Rabbi Loew, his legs crossed one over the other, sat in the big horsehair chair by the door, the age spots on his hands as brown as Golem clay. ‘what can I do for you Rabbi?’ asked the agent trying not to stare at his hands. Struggling to stand up, his belly hanging like an overfed lapdog, the Rabbi pointed a spotty finger at a sac of lemon twists on the shelf above the agent’s head. ‘those; I’ll take a bag of those’ he said, his eyes two black dots sunk in a knoll of pink flesh. I promise it won’t hurt, now turn over. Don’t look at me! Look away. The dead come in every shape, size and colour; some more inconspicuous than others. The Chinese masseuse wears pin heel boots. Strange is she kisses on the lips. Never says lay off. I promised it’d hurt, now get on your belly. Big horsehair chair and age spots like Golem clay. Gimme the yellar ones; yes, that’s them. Sad thing is his hat doesn’t fit anymore; sideburns stuck to his skinny neck like washer line.

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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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