Ponder at the Peacock in the Poultrey near Cornhill (Hosea 12:10)

by dschapman

I cannae be asked to lie, and yet ever have I lain, and will lay while waiting for the clouds to part again, smoking my corncob pipe like Oroonoko before the good Christian men, left unanswered for like the ill-received hands lay themselves in droves across my body. A printer be a printer thus; and, once in print, is left to lay destitute in the wake of his lies that spread like pollen across the troughs of academia, decorum, and the Human Presence. Surely as the Rhincodontidae delve their secrets in the deep, so don’t we leave our lingering tastes in the back of our palates and keep our necks wrapped up right, whether it be spider silk or adamantium ore, that is, gold or cotton, diamond and tooth; the cabaret keeps the lice of our inner thighs and feeds the hounds the lumps and gizzards that men of culture leave, a thin film developing as it congeals, on their plates. You could see, however, for yourself, if only I’d take all that apple pie out of the lightbulb (What was I thinking?). I’ve kept the filament for good luck. I floss my teeth before we kiss with it; I flint my zip with it and freebase my dope with it. With a tip to my back I rip my letters into pieces and leave them for the fireplace. It’s mighty dark in here. Whenever things begin to clear up and take form, I always – I ought to say, by accident – knock over the turpentine and turn us back into the pure, raw primordialism of pigments at rest in a flat and watery void. Let’s leave the nymphettes to their symphonic hedonism and opt ourselves for honor amongst those without, like our fathers amongst dogs, or a Southerner at play with the hogs, leaving cards face down and blazers hung by the door; and, of course, the guns checked in the mudroom. Have you ever had a dream in a mudroom? There are elemental spicts at work, childish blindness at hand, and the extremities weave and flux and have their will with you. I scrape the rust off of the oil tank and stir it up in Disarray then paint my barn with it to keep the gulls and crows, and whatever else this way blows, skyward or south, at bay. I pick the salt from my gums; I’ve been drinking seawater again. I’m feeling like I used to feel, back when the world still spun, and when tit for tat meant what it meant and that was that; though, of course, we couldn’t have been expected to know, because not even those who knew had any idea; and so onwards we fall. A classic.