Bread ends and livery sausage, Quaker oats boiled to placental mush, spooned into the scullery of my mouth with a tuning-fork. Day-old bread is a luxury, as weeks, sometimes months pass unnoticed as the food in my larder turns bootblack-black, frostbitten toes curled into necrotic wingtips. Philosophy pays 5 cents less than a turnip-cart of advice, which amounts to nothing, nil, zero to the absolute tenth power of one. Sheep’s brains siphoned through curd-cloth into a rusty tin cup, the sort used by almsmen and derelicts. I think I’ll eat my foot today, the left one, as I’m a much better hopper on the right. Or fly a kite, perhaps, made from garbage bags and coat hangers scotched together with mason’s tape; kiting acumen to the tenth power of one, maybe higher.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
About Me
- Stephen Rowntree
- "Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
3 comments:
if this wasn't true i'd be laughing
I am, so please go ahead and join in, makes for a Becketty drama, Godot tree and all; which I hear is quite good, either steeped or eaten with cocktail onions.
Lucky, bring me some laughter... Now.
Post a Comment