Thursday, September 30, 2010

von Waldeyer

Hurrying passed me her face red like the cream soda we bought at the corner store where the fat kid chewed his cud pathetic he didn’t know his ass from a hole in his head see his kind under the rector’s bench much as I’d like to forget that and that that went on back then when I wasn’t as big as I am now littler when I wore those knee-britches with the slit on the side and the rope belt that was always rubbing the fat over the lip of my pants and fader looking for the hole down the dark cobwebby tunnel that connects the twats with the balls and the white sheets flocking like gulls making a nuisance when the older kids just wanted to show off to their flat chest girlfriends cheeks pinched crimson like the red squall jacket my mamma made me wear in bad weather and my da sitting on the porch tamping flake into his cob enough to bring on a hacking fit just like that".

von Waldeyer, cunt drops washers into the collection plate, thinks he’s putting one over on God, not likely that God would give him a moment’s notice. A dime a dozen, cunts like von Waldeyer. Always got to keep your eye on ‘em; never know if they’ll pick your pocket or run you up against the wall. Thing is. Firstly I met him when I was a wee trawler fishing for chubs in wellies and the rain slicker my ma made me wear just in case the weather got ruinous. Branches whipping round like ragdolls with twig arms. Take your head off like a bean tin, blackstrap flying every-which-where. Snježana ate her lunch on a bench in the park behind the aqueduct, her tiny malformed teeth sawing raw carrots and sandwich crusts. Her mamma made her wear spurge cotton dresses with lace collars bought off the hanger from the Saint Vincent De Paul. His da told him that she never outgrew her milk teeth and had to break whatever she ate into small pieces so she wouldn’t choke on them. Her teeth had little bumps on them and if you looked hard enough you could see tiny purple veins like the ones you could see on a baby’s head when its born.

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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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