sKY pIMPS

The sun is hiding, he thought, holed up in the barrows of a whore’s skirts. The clouds are the sky’s pimps, feathered hats, pigskin eyes, hogsheads. The rain and brusque wind oblige the shamble legged man to skim across the top of the pavement like mercury. He moves like graffiti, curlicues and haloes of colour. There is nothing more inveigling, thought the man in the hat, than the truth. The truth being what one is accustom to accepting as true, an act of inveiglement, a pimply way of getting what one wants. Hogshead soups, brothel gumbo, bouillabaisse, molder and commode, a purulent fester of rancid mutton ladled into outstretched bowls.