¿Es el alto al fuego en la franja de gaza una esperanza?
El facho pobre, el cholonazi, el terruqueador,
características de esa fauna de acomplejados, que pululan destilando odio
y bilis. Racistas e intolerantes con sus iguales, de insulto y cuchillo fácil;
y cuando el lloriqueo fujifascista los pone en evidencia, suelen decir que son
anarquistas, y que no les interesa la política, cuando la antipolítica es una
de las características notables del fascismo. Contradictoriamente libertarados,
pero no se les puede decir nada, porque inmediatamente se hacen los sabios y se
ponen faltosos. Por allí dicen que “no hay que gastar balas en gallinazos”, así
que es mejor dejarlos, porque, cómo decía Mark Twain, al menos en esa cita que
se le atribuye: “Nunca discutas con un imbécil, te hará descender a su nivel y
allí te vencerá por experiencia”. Y, pese a mi antifascismo pulsional, prefiero
dejarlos así, con su replana predecible y discurso de manual. Hace un tiempo,
una amiga me pasó una lista de subtes fachos, o de esos que se consideran
subtes y que chillan y terruquean todo el tiempo, luego de casi un lustro, he
ido agregando nombres a esa lista. Por eso les dejo este video, para que se
miren en el espejo y se reconozcan. Tal vez el país es diferente pero la fauna
siempre será la misma.
Fernando Cassamar
Ocultar
Comentarios
Carreño ahí te hablan
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Dejarlos no jamás , confróntalos así te bajen a su nivel y
ganen por imbéciles yo tengo práctica en bajar mi nivel y me he dado cuenta de
que soy mucho mas imbécil que ellos.
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Christian
Franco Rodriguez En búsqueda de la imbecilidad perdida?
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Miguel
Blásica No es algo mucho mas parecido a Joyce: ¡Me gustaría que me
flagelaras, Facho, amor mío! Me encantaría haber hecho algo que te desagradara,
algo insignificante incluso, tal vez una de mis costumbres bastante indecentes
que te hacen reír: y después oír que me llamas a tu habitación y encontrarte
sentado en un sillón con tus gruesos muslos separados y la cara roja como un
tomate de ira y un bastón en la mano. Es como con Dios yo siempre lo veo así
como veo la debilidad en la inteligencia humana hasta en Joyce mismo, sino me
crees lee Finnegans Wake https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9tWPMjqXK_o es un
bestialidad construyendo desde la imbecilidad completa, desde lamas grande
debilidad el libro más inteligente de toda la historia.
Final del formulario
riverrun, past Eve and Adam’s, from swerve of shore to bend
of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle
and Environs. Sir Tristram, violer d’amores, fr’over the short sea, had
passencore rearrived from North Armorica on this side the scraggy isthmus of
Europe Minor to wielderfi ght his penisolate war: nor had topsawyer’s rocks by
the stream Oconee exaggerated themselse to Laurens County’s gorgios while they
went doublin their mumper all the time: nor avoice from afi re bellowsed mishe
mishe to tauftauf thuartpeatrick: not yet, though venissoon after, had a
kidscad buttended a bland old isaac: not yet, though all’s fair in vanessy,
were sosie sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe. Rot a peck of pa’s malt had
Jhem or Shen brewed by arclight and rory end to the regginbrow was to be seen
ringsome on the aquaface. Th e fall
(bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!)
of a once wallstrait oldparr is retaled early in bed and later on life down
through all christian minstrelsy. Th e great fall of the off wall entailed at
such short notice the pftjschute of Finnegan, erse solid man, that the
humptyhillhead of humself prumptly sends an unquiring one well to the west in
quest of his tumptytumtoes: and their upturnpikepointandplace is at the knock
out in the park where oranges have been laid to rust upon the green since
devlinsfi rst loved livvy. 4 What clashes here of wills gen wonts, oystrygods
gaggin fi shygods! Brékkek Kékkek Kékkek Kékkek! Kóax Kóax Kóax! Ualu Ualu
Ualu! Quaouauh! Where the Baddelaries partisans are still out to mathmaster
Malachus Micgranes and the Verdons catapelting the camibalistics out of the
Whoyteboyce of Hoodie Head. Assiegates and boomeringstroms. Sod’s brood, be me
fear! Sanglorians, save! Arms apeal with larms, appalling. Killykillkilly: a
toll, a toll. What chance cuddleys, what cashels aired and ventilated! What
bidimetoloves sinduced by what tegotetabsolvers! What true feeling for their’s
hayair with what strawng voice of false jiccup! O here here how hoth sprowled
met the duskt the father of fornicationists but, (O my shining stars and body!)
how hath fanespanned most high heaven the skysign of soft advertisement! But
waz iz? Iseut? Ere were sewers? Th e oaks of ald now they lie in peat yet elms
leap where askes lay. Phall if you but will, rise you must: and none so soon
either shall the pharce for the nunce come to a setdown secular phoenish.
Bygmester Finnegan, of the Stuttering Hand, freemen’s maurer, lived in the
broadest way immarginable in his rushlit toofarback for messuages before
joshuan judges had given us numbers or Helviticus committed deuteronomy (one
yeastyday he sternely struxk his tete in a tub for to watsch the future of his
fates but ere he swiftly stook it out again, by the might of moses, the very
water was eviparated and all the guenneses had met their exodus so that ought
to show you what a pentschanjeuchy chap he was!) and during mighty odd years
this man of hod, cement and edifi ces in Toper’s Th orp piled buildung supra
buildung pon the banks for the livers by the Soangso. He addle liddle phifi e
Annie ugged the little craythur. Wither hayre in honds tuck up your part inher.
Oftwhile balbulous, mithre ahead, with goodly trowel in grasp and ivoroiled
overalls which he habitacularly fondseed, like Haroun Childeric Eggeberth he
would caligulate by multiplicables the alltitude and malltitude until he seesaw
by neatlight of the liquor wheretwin ’twas born, his roundhead staple of other
days to rise in undress maisonry upstanded (joygrantit!), a waalworth of a
skyerscape of most eyeful hoyth entowerly, erigenating from 5 next to nothing
and celescalating the himals and all, hierarchitectitiptitoploftical, with a
burning bush abob off its baubletop and with larrons o’toolers clittering up
and tombles a’buckets clottering down. Of the fi rst was he to bare arms and a
name: Wassaily Booslaeugh of Riesengeborg. His crest of huroldry, in vert with
ancillars, troublant, argent, a hegoak, poursuivant, horrid, horned. His
scutschum fessed, with archers strung, helio, of the second. Hootch is for
husbandman handling his hoe. Hohohoho, Mister Finn, you’re going to be Mister
Finnagain! Comeday morm and, O, you’re vine! Sendday’s eve and, ah, you’re
vinegar! Hahahaha, Mister Funn, you’re going to be fi ned again! What then
agentlike brought about that tragoady thundersday this municipal sin business?
Our cubehouse still rocks as earwitness to the thunder of his arafatas but we
hear also through successive ages that shebby choruysh of unkalifi ed
muzzlenimiissilehims that would blackguardise the whitestone ever hurtleturtled
out of heaven. Stay us wherefore in our search for tighteousness, O Sustainer,
what time we rise and when we take up to toothmick and before we lump down
upown our leatherbed and in the night and at the fading of the stars! For a nod
to the nabir is better than wink to the wabsanti. Otherways wesways like that
provost scoffi ng bedoueen the jebel and the jpysian sea. Cropherb the
crunchbracken shall decide. Th en we’ll know if the feast is a fl yday. She has
a gift of seek on site and she allcasually ansars helpers, the dreamydeary.
Heed! Heed! It may half been a missfi red brick, as some say, or it mought have
been due to a collupsus of his back promises, as others looked at it. (Th ere
extand by now one thousand and one stories, all told, of the same). But so sore
did abe ite ivvy’s holired abbles, (what with the wallhall’s horrors of
rollsrights, carhacks, stonengens, kisstvanes, tramtrees, fargobawlers,
autokinotons, hippohobbilies, streetfl eets, tournintaxes, megaphoggs, circuses
and wardsmoats and basilikerks and aeropagods and the hoyse and the jollybrool
and the peeler in the coat and the mecklenburk bitch bite at his ear and the
merlinburrow burrocks and his fore old porecourts, the bore the more, and his 6
blightblack workingstacks at twelvepins a dozen and the noobibusses sleighding
along Safetyfi rst Street and the derryjellybies snooping around
Tell-No-Tailors’ Corner and the fumes and the hopes and the strupithump of his
ville’s indigenous romekeepers, homesweepers, domecreepers, thurum and thurum
in fancymud murumd and all the uproor from all the aufroofs, a roof for may and
a reef for hugh butt under his bridge suits tony) wan warning Phill fi lt
tippling full. His howd feeled heavy, his hoddit did shake. (Th ere was a wall
of course in erection) Dimb! He stottered from the latter. Damb! he was dud.
Dumb! Mastabatoom, mastabadtomm, when a mon merries his lute is all long. For
whole the world to see. Shize? I should shee! Macool, Macool, orra whyi deed ye
diie? of a trying thirstay mournin? Sobs they sighdid at Fillagain’s
chrissormiss wake, all the hoolivans of the nation, prostrated in their
consternation and their duodisimally profusive plethora of ululation. Th ere
was plumbs and grumes and cheriff s and citherers and raiders and cinemen too.
And the all gianed in with the shoutmost shoviality. Agog and magog and the
round of them agrog. To the continuation of that celebration until
Hanandhunigan’s extermination! Some in kinkin corass, more, kankan keening.
Belling him up and fi lling him down. He’s stiff but he’s steady is Priam Olim!
’Twas he was the dacent gaylabouring youth. Sharpen his pillowscone, tap up his
bier! E’erawhere in this whorl would ye hear sich a din again? With their
deepbrow fundigs and the dusty fi delios. Th ey laid him brawdawn alanglast
bed. With a bockalips of fi nisky fore his feet. And a barrowload of guenesis
hoer his head. Tee the tootal of the fl uid hang the twoddle of the fuddled, O!
Hurrah, there is but young gleve for the owl globe wheels in view which is
tautaulogically the same thing. Well, Him a being so on the fl ounder of his
bulk like an overgrown babeling, let wee peep, see, at Hom, well, see peegee
ought he ought, platterplate. E Hum! From Shopalist to Bailywick or from ashtun
to baronoath or from Buythebanks to Roundthehead or from the foot of the bill
to ireglint’s eye he calmly extensolies. And all the way (a horn!) from fj ord
to fj ell his baywinds’ oboboes shall wail him 7 rockbound (hoahoahoah!) in
swimswamswum and all the livvylong night, the delldale dalppling night, the night
of bluerybells, her fl ittafl ute in tricky trochees (O carina! O carina!) wake
him. With her issavan essavans and her patterjackmartins about all them inns
and ouses. Tilling a teel of a tum, telling a toll of a teary turty Taubling.
Grace before Glutton. For what we are, gifs à gross if we are, about to
believe. So pool the begg and pass the kish for crawsake. Omen. So sigh us.
Grampupus is fallen down but grinny sprids the boord. Whase on the joint of a
desh? Finfoefom the Fush. Whase be his baken head? A loaf of Singpantry’s
Kennedy bread. And whase hitched to the hop in his tayle? A glass of Danu
U’Dunnell’s foamous olde Dobbelin ayle. But, lo, as you would quaff off his
fraudstuff and sink teeth through that pyth of a fl owerwhite bodey behold of him
as behemoth for he is noewhemoe. Finiche! Only a fadograph of a yestern scene.
Almost rubicund Salmosalar, ancient fromout the ages of the Agapemonides, he is
smoltenin our mist, woebecanned and packt away. So that meal’s dead off for
summan, schlook, schlice and goodridhirring. Yet may we not see still the
brontoichthyan form outlined aslumbered, even in our own nighttime by the sedge
of the troutling stream that Bronto loved and Brunto has a lean on. Hiccubat
edilis. Apud libertinam parvulam. Whatif she be in fl ags or fl itters,
reekierags or sundyechosies, with a mint of mines or beggar a pinnyweight.
Arrah, sure, we all love little Anny Ruiny, or, we mean to say, lovelittle Anna
Rayiny, when unda her brella, mid piddle med puddle, she ninnygoes nannygoes
nancing by. Yoh! Brontolone slaaps, yoh snoores. Upon Benn Heather, in Seeple
Isout too. Th e cranic head on him, caster of his reasons, peer yuthner in
yondmist. Whooth? His clay feet, swarded in verdigrass, stick up starck where
he last fellonem, by the mund of the magazine wall, where our maggy seen all,
with her sisterin shawl. While over against this belles’ alliance beyind Ill
Sixty, ollollowed ill! bagsides of the fort, bom, tarabom, tarabom, lurk the
ombushes, the site of the lyffi ng-in-wait of the upjock and hockums. Hence
when the clouds roll by, jamey, a proudseye view is 8 enjoyable of our
mounding’s mass, now Wallinstone national museum, with, in some greenish
distance, the charmful waterloose country and the two quitewhite villagettes who
hear show of themselves so gigglesomes minxt the follyages, the prettilees!
Penetrators are permitted into the museomound free. Welsh and the Paddy
Patkinses, one shelenk! Redismembers invalids of old guard fi nd poussepousse
pousseypram to sate the sort of their butt. For her passkey supply to the
janitrix, the mistress Kathe. Tip. Th is the way to the museyroom. Mind your
hats goan in! Now yiz are in the Willingdone Museyroom. Th is is a Prooshious
gunn. Th is is a ff rinch. Tip. Th is is the fl ag of the Prooshious, the Cap
and Soracer. Th is is the bullet that byng the fl ag of the Prooshious. Th is
is the ff rinch that fi re on the Bull that bang the fl ag of the Prooshious.
Saloos the Crossgunn! Up with your pike and fork! Tip. (Bullsfoot! Fine!) Th is
is the triplewon hat of Lipoleum. Tip. Lipoleumhat. Th is is the Willingdone on
his same white harse, the Cokenhape. Th is is the big Sraughter Willingdone,
grand and magentic in his goldtin spurs and his ironed dux and his quarterbrass
woodyshoes and his magnate’s gharters and his bangkok’s best and goliar’s
goloshes and his pulluponeasyan wartrews. Th is is his big wide harse. Tip. Th
is is the three lipoleum boyne grouching down in the living detch. Th is is an
inimyskilling inglis, this is a scotcher grey, this is a davy, stooping. Th is
is the bog lipoleum mordering the lipoleum beg. A Gallawghurs argaumunt. Th is
is the petty lipoleum boy that was nayther bag nor bug. Assaye, assaye!
Touchole Fitz Tuomush. Dirty MacDyke. And Hairy O’Hurry. All of them
arminus-varminus. Th is is Delian alps. Th is is Mont Tivel, this is Mont
Tipsey, this is the Grand Mons Injun. Th is is the crimealine of the alps
hooping to sheltershock the three lipoleums. Th is is the jinnies with their
legahorns feinting to read in their handmade’s book of stralegy while making
their war undisides the Willingdone. Th e jinnies is a cooin her hand and the
jinnies is a ravin her hair and the Willingdone git the band up. Th is is big
Willingdone mormorial tallowscoop Wounderworker obscides on the fl anks of the
jinnies. Sexcaliber hrosspower. Tip. Th is 9 is me Belchum sneaking his
phillippy out of his most Awful Grimmest Sunshat Cromwelly. Looted. Th is is
the jinnies’ hastings dispatch for to irrigate the Willingdone. Dispatch in thin
red lines cross the shortfront of me Belchum. Yaw, yaw, yaw! Leaper Orthor.
Fear siecken! Fieldgaze thy tiny frow. Hugacting. Nap. Th at was the tictacs of
the jinnies for to fontannoy the Willingdone. Shee, shee, shee! Th e jinnies is
jillous agincourting all the lipoleums. And the lipoleums is gonn
boycottoncrezy onto the one Willingdone. And the Willingdone git the band up.
Th is is bode Belchum, bonnet to busby, breaking his secred word with a ball up
his ear to the Willingdone. Th is is the Willingdone’s hurold dispitchback.
Dispitch desployed on the regions rare of me Belchum. Salamangra! Ayi, ayi,
ayi! Cherry jinnies. Figtreeyou! Damn fairy ann, Voutre. Willingdone. Th at was
the fi rst joke of Willingdone, tic for tac. Hee, hee, hee! Th is is me Belchum
in his twelvemile cowchooks, weet, tweet and stampforth foremost, footing the
camp for the jinnies. Drink a sip, drankasup, for he’s as sooner buy a guinness
than he’d stale store stout. Th is is Rooshious balls. Th is is a ttrinch. Th
is is mistletropes. Th is is Canon Futter with the popynose. After his hundred
days’ indulgence. Th is is the blessed. Tarra’s widdars! Th is is jinnies in
the bonny bawn blooches. Th is is lipoleums in the rowdy howses. Th is is the
Willingdone, by the splinters of Cork, order fi re. Tonnerre! (Bullsear! Play!)
Th is is camelry, this is fl oodens, this is the solphereens in action, this is
their mobbily, this is panickburns. Almeidagad! Arthiz too loose! Th is is
Willingdone cry. Brum! Brum! Cumbrum! Th is is jinnies cry. Underwetter! Goat
strip Finnlambs! Th is is jinnies rinning away to their ousterlists dowan a
bunkersheels. With a nip nippy nip and a trip trippy trip so airy. For their
heart’s right there. Tip. Th is is me Belchum’s tinkyou tankyou silvoor plate
for citchin the crapes in the cool of his canister. Poor the pay! Th is is the
bissmark of the marathon merry of the jinnies they left behind them. Th is is
the Willingdone branlish his same marmorial tallowscoop SophyKey-Po for his
royal divorsion on the rinnaway jinnies. Gambariste della porca! Dalaveras fi
mmieras! Th is is the pettiest 10 of the lipoleums, Toff eethief, that spy on
the Willingdone from his big white harse, the Capeinhope. Stonewall Willingdone
is an old maxy montrumeny. Lipoleums is nice hung bushellors. Th is is hiena
hinnessy laughing alout at the Willingdone. Th is is lipsyg dooley krieging the
funk from the hinnessy. Th is is the hinndoo Shimar Shin between the dooley boy
and the hinnessy. Tip. Th is is the wixy old Willingdone picket up the half of
the threefoiled hat of lipoleums fromoud of the bluddle fi lth. Th is is the
hinndoo waxing ranjymad for a bombshoob. Th is is the Willingdone hanking the
half of the hat of lipoleums up the tail on the buckside of his big white
harse. Tip. Th at was the last joke of Willingdone. Hit, hit, hit! Th is is the
same white harse of the Willingdone, Culpenhelp, waggling his tailoscrupp with
the half of a hat of lipoleums to insoult on the hinndoo seeboy. Hney, hney,
hney! (Bullsrag! Foul!) Th is is the seeboy, madrashattaras, upjump and pumpim,
cry to the Willingdone: Ap Pukkaru! Pukka Yurap! Th is is the Willingdone,
bornstable ghentleman, tinders his maxbotch to the cursigan Shimar Shin.
Basucker youstead! Th is is the dooforhim seeboy blow the whole of the half of
the hat of lipoleums off of the top of the tail on the back of his big wide
harse. Tip (Bullseye! Game!) How Copenhagen ended. Th is way the museyroom.
Mind your boots goan out. Phew! What a warm time we were in there but how
keling is here the airabouts! We nowhere she lives but you mussna tell annaone
for the lamp of Jig-a-Lanthern! It’s a candlelittle houthse of a month and one
windies. Downadown, High Downadown. And nummered quaintlymine. And such
reasonable weather too! Th e wagrant wind’s awalt’zaround the piltdowns and on
every blasted knollyrock (if you can spot fi fty I spy four more) there’s that
gnarlybird ygathering, a runalittle, doalittle, preealittle, pouralittle,
wipealittle, kicksalittle, severalittle, eatalittle, whinealittle, kenalittle,
helfalittle, pelfalittle gnarlybird. A verytableland of bleakbardfi elds! Under
his seven wrothschields lies one, Lumproar. His glav toside him. Skud ontorsed.
Our pigeons pair are fl ewn for northcliff s. 11 Th e three of crows have fl apped
it southenly, kraaking of de baccle to the kvarters of that sky whence triboos
answer; Wail, ’tis well! She niver comes out when Th on’s on shower or when Th
on’s fl ash with his Nixy girls or when Th on’s blowing toomcracks down the
gaels of Th on. No nubo no! Neblas on you liv! Her would be too moochy afreet.
Of Burymeleg and Bindmerollingeyes and all the deed in the woe. Fe fo fom! She
jist does hopes till byes will be byes. Here, and it goes on to appear now, she
comes, a peacefugle, a parody’s bird, a peri potmother, a pringlpik in the
ilandiskippy, with peewee and powwows in beggybaggy on her bickybacky and a fl
ick fl ask fl eckfl inging its pixylighting pacts’ huemeramybows, picking here,
pecking there, pussypussy plunderpussy. But it’s the armitides toonigh,
militopucos, and toomourn we wish for a muddy kissmans to the minutia workers
and there’s to be a gorgeups truce for happinest childher everwere. Come nebo
me and suso sing the day we sallybright. She’s burrowed the coacher’s headlight
the better to pry (who goes cute goes siocur and shoos aroun) and all spoiled
goods go into her nabsack: curtrages and rattlin buttins, nappy spattees and fl
asks of all nations, clavicures and scampulars, maps, keys and woodpiles of
haypennies and moonled brooches with bloodstaned breeks in em, boaston
nightgarters and masses of shoesets and nickelly nacks and foder allmicheal and
a lugly parson of cates and howitzer muchears and midgers and maggets, ills and
ells with loff s of toff s and pleures of bells and the last sigh that come fro
the hart (bucklied!) and the fairest sin the sunsaw (that’s cearc!). With Kiss.
Kiss Criss. Cross Criss. Kiss Cross. Undo lives ’end. Slain. How bootifull and
how truetowife of her, when strengly forebidden, to steal our historic presents
from the past postpropheticals so as to will make us all lordyheirs and
ladymaidesses of a pretty nice kettle of fruit. She is livving in our midst of
debt and laffi ng through all plores for us (her birth is uncontrollable), with
a naperon for her mask and her sabboes kickin arias (so sair! so solly!) if
yous ask me and I saack you. Hou! Hou! Gricks may rise and Troysirs fall (there
being two sights for ever a picture) 12 for in the byways of high improvidence
that’s what makes lifework leaving and the world’s a cell for citters to cit
in. Let young wimman run away with the story and let young min talk smooth
behind the butteler’s back. She knows her knight’s duty while Luntum sleeps.
Did ye save any tin? says he. Did I what? with a grin says she. And we all like
a marriedann because she is mercenary. Th ough the length of the land lies
under liquidation (fl oote!) and there’s nare a hairbrow nor an eyebush on this
glaubrous phace of Herrschuft Whatarwelter she’ll loan a vesta and hire some
peat and sarch the shores her cockles to heat and she’ll do all a turfwoman can
to piff the business on. Paff . To puff the blaziness on. Poff poff . And even
if Humpty shell fall frumpty times as awkward again in the beardsboosoloom of
all our grand remonstrancers there’ll be iggs for the brekkers come to
mournhim, sunny side up with care. So true is it that therewhere’s a turnover
the tay is wet too and when you think you ketch sight of a hind make sure but
you’re cocked by a hin. Th en as she is on her behaviourite job of quainance
bandy, fruting for fi rstlings and taking her tithe, we may take our review of
the two mounds to see nothing of the himples here as at elsewhere, by sixes and
sevens, like so many heegills and collines, sitton aroont, scentbreeched ant
somepotreek, in their swishawish satins and their taff etaff e tights, playing
Wharton’s Folly, at a treepurty on the planko in the purk. Stand up, mickos!
Make strake for minnas! By order, Nicholas Proud. We may see and hear nothing
if we choose of the shortlegged bergins off Corkhill or the bergamoors of
Arbourhill or the bergagambols of Summerhill or the bergincellies of Miseryhill
or the countrybossed bergones of Constitutionhill though every crowd has its
several tones and every trade has its clever mechanics and each harmonical has
a point of its own, Olaf’s on the rise and Ivor’s on the lift and Sitric’s
place’s between them. But all they are all there scraping along to sneeze out a
likelihood that will solve and salve life’s robulous rebus, hopping round his
middle like kippers on a griddle, O, as he lays dormont from the macroborg of
Holdhard to the microbirg of Pied de Poudre. Behove this 13 sound of Irish
sense. Really? Here English might be seen. Royally? One sovereign punned to
petery pence. Regally? Th e silence speaks the scene. Fake! So Th is Is
Dyoublong? Hush! Caution! Echoland! How charmingly exquisite! It reminds you of
the outwashed engravure that we used to be blurring on the blotchwall of his
innkempt house. Used they? (I am sure that tiring chabelshoveller with the
mujikal chocolat box, Miry Mitchel, is listening) I say, the remains of the
outworn gravemure where used to be blurried the Ptollmens of the Incabus. Used
we? (He is only pretendant to be stugging at the jubalee harp from a second
existed lishener, Fiery Farrelly.) It is well known. Lokk for himself and see
the old butte new. Dbln. W. K. O. O. Hear? By the mausolime wall. Fimfi m fi
mfi m. With a grand funferall. Fumfum fumfum. ’Tis optophone which ontophanes.
List! Wheatstone’s magic lyer. Th ey will be tuggling foriver. Th ey will be
lichening for allof. Th ey will be pretumbling forover. Th e harpsdischord
shall be theirs for ollaves. Four things therefore, saith our herodotary Mammon
Lujius in his grand old historiorum, wrote near Boriorum, bluest book in
baile’s annals, f.t. in Dyffl inarsky ne’er sall fail tilheathersmoke and
cloudweed Eire’s ile sall pall. And here now they are, the fear of um. T.
Totities! Unum. (Adar.) A bulbenboss surmounted upon an alderman. Ay, ay! Duum.
(Nizam.) A shoe on a puir old wobban. Ah, ho! Triom. (Tamuz.) An auburn mayde,
o’brine a’bride, to be desarted. Adear, adear! Quodlibus. (Marchessvan.) A penn
no weightier nor a polepost. And so. And all. (Succoth.) So, how idlers’ wind
turning pages on pages, as innocens with anaclete play popeye antipop, the
leaves of the living in the boke of the deeds, annals of themselves timing the
cycles of events grand and national, bring fassilwise to pass how. 1132 A.D.
Men like to ants or emmets wondern upon a groot hwide Whallfi sk which lay in a
Runnel. Blubby wares upat Ublanium. 566 A.D. On Baalfi re’s night of this year
after deluge a crone that 14 hadde a wickered Kish for to hale dead turves from
the bog lookit under the blay of her Kish as she ran for to sothisfeige her
cowrieosity and be me sawl but she found hersell sackvulle of swart goody
quickenshoon and small illigant brogues, so rich in sweat. Blurry works at
Hurdlesford. (Silent.) 566 A.D. At this time it fell out that a brazenlockt
damsel grieved (sobralasolas!) because that Puppette her minion was ravisht of
her by the ogre Puropeus Pious. Bloody wars in Ballyaughacleeaghbally. 1132
A.D. Two sons at an hour were born until a goodman and his hag. Th ese sons
called themselves Caddy and Primas. Primas was a santryman and drilled all
decent people. Caddy went to Winehouse and wrote o peace a farce. Blotty words
for Dublin. Somewhere, parently, in the ginnandgo gap between antediluvious and
annadominant the copyist must have fl ed with his scroll. Th e billy fl ood
rose or an elk charged him or the sultrup worldwright from the excelsissimost
empyrean (bolt, in sum) earthspake or the Dannamen gallous banged pan the
bliddy duran. A scribicide then and there is led off under old’s code with some
fi ne covered by six marks or ninepins in metalmen for the sake of his labour’s
dross while it will be only now and again in our rear of o’er era, as an
upshoot of military and civil engagements, that a gynecure was let on to the
scuff old for taking that same fi ne sum covertly by meddlement with the
drawers of his neighbour’s safe. Now after all that farfatch’d and peragrine or
dingnant or clere lift we our ears, eyes of the darkness, from the tome of
Liber Lividus and, (toh!), how paisibly eirenical, all dimmering dunes and
gloamering glades, selfstretches afore us our fredeland’s plain! Lean neath
stone pine the pastor lies with his crook; young pricket by pricket’s sister
nibbleth on returned viridities; amaid her rocking grasses the herb trinity
shams lowliness; skyup is of evergrey. Th us, too, for donkey’s years. Since
the bouts of Hebear and Hairyman the cornfl owers have been staying at
Ballymun, 15 the duskrose has choosed out Goatstown’s hedges, twolips have
pressed togatherthem by sweet Rush, townland of twinedlights, the whitethorn
and the redthorn have fairygeyed the mayvalleys of Knockmaroon, and, though for
rings round them, during a chiliad of perihelygangs, the Formoreans have
brittled the tooath of the Danes and the Oxman has been pestered by the
Firebugs and the Joynts have thrown up jerrybuilding to the Kevanses and Little
on the Green is childsfather to the City (Year! Year! And laughtears!), these
paxsealing buttonholes have quadrilled across the centuries and whiff now whaff
t to us, fresh and made-of-all-smiles as, on the eve of Killallwho. Th e
babbelers with their thangas vain have been (confusium hold them!) they were
and went; thigging thugs were and houhnhymn songtoms were and comely norgels
were and pollyfool fi ansees. Menn have thawed, clerks have surssurhummed, the
blond has sought of the brune: Elsekiss thou may, mean Kerry piggy?: and the
duncledames have countered with the hellish fellows: Who ails tongue coddeau,
aspace of dumbillsilly? And they fell upong one another: and themselves they
have fallen. And still nowanights and by nights of yore do all bold fl oras of
the fi eld to their shyfaun lovers say only: Cull me ere I wilt to thee!: and,
but a little later: Pluck me whilst I blush! Well may they wilt, marry, and
profusedly blush, be troth! For that saying is as old as the howitts. Lave a
whale a while in a whillbarrow (isn’t it the truath I’m tallin ye?) to have fi
ns and fl ippers that shimmy and shake. Tim Timmycan timped hir, tampting Tam.
Fleppety! Flippety! Fleapow! Hop! In the name of Anem this carl on the kopje in
pelted thongs a parth a lone who the joebiggar be he? Forshapen his pigmaid
hoagshead, shroonk his plodsfoot. He hath locktoes, this shortshins, and,
Obeold that’s pectoral, his mammamuscles most mousterious. It is slaking
nuncheon out of some thing’s brain pan. Me seemeth a dragon man. He is
almonthst on the kiep fi ef by here, is Comestipple Sacksoun, be it junipery or
febrewery, marracks or alebrill or the ramping riots of pouriose and 16
froriose. What a quhare soort of a mahan. It is evident the michindaddy. Lets
we overstep his fi re defences and these kraals of slitsucked marrogbones.
(Cave!) He can prapsposterus the pillory way to Hirculos pillar. Come on, fool
porterfull, hosiered women blown monk sewer? Scuse us, chorley guy! You
tollerday donsk? N. You tolkatiff scowegian? Nn. You spigotty anglease? Nnn.
You phonio saxo? Nnnn. Clear all so! ’Tis a Jute. Let us swop hats and excheck
a few strong verbs weak oach eather yapyazzard abast the blooty creeks. Jute. —
Yutah! Mutt. — Mukk’s pleasurad. Jute. — Are you jeff ? Mutt. — Somehards.
Jute. — But you are not jeff mute? Mutt. — Noho. Only an utterer. Jute. — Whoa?
Whoat is the mutter with you? Mutt. — I became a stun a stummer. Jute. — What a
hauhauhauhaudibble thing, to be cause! How, Mutt? Mutt. — Aput the buttle,
surd. Jute. — Whose poddle? Wherein? Mutt. — Th e Inns of Dungtarf where Used
awe to be he. Jute. — You that side your voise are almost inedible to me.
Become a bitskin more wiseable, as if I were you. Mutt. — Has? Has at?
Hasatency? Urp, Boohooru! Booru Usurp! I trumple from rath in mine mines when I
rimimirim! Jute. — One eyegonblack. Bisons is bisons. Let me fore all your
hasitancy cross your qualm with trink gilt. Here have sylvan coyne, a piece of
oak. Ghinees hies good for you. Mutt. — Louee, louee! How wooden I not know it,
the intel- lible greytcloak of Cedric Silkyshag! Cead mealy faulty rices for
one dabblin bar. Old grilsy growlsy! He was poached on in that eggtentical
spot. Here 17 where the liveries, Monomark. Th ere where the mis- sers moony,
Minnikin passe. Jute. — Simply because as Taciturn pretells, our wrongstory-
shortener, he dumptied the wholeborrow of rubba- ges on to soil here. Mutt. —
Just how a puddinstone inat the brookcells by a riverpool. Jute. — Load
Allmarshy! Wid wad for a norse like? Mutt. — Somular with a bull on a
clompturf. Rooks roarum rex roome! I could snore to him of the spumy horn, with
his woolseley side in, by the neck I am sutton on, did Brian d’ of Linn. Jute.
— Boildoyle and rawhoney on me when I can beuraly forsstand a weird from sturk
to fi nnic in such a pat- what as your rutterdamrotter. Onheard of and um-
scene! Gut aftermeal! See you doomed. Mutt. — Quite agreem. Bussave a sec. Walk
a dunblink roundward this albutisle and you skull see how olde ye plaine of my
Elters, hunfree and ours, where wone to wail whimbrel to peewee o’er the
saltings, where wilby citie by law of isthmon, where by a droit of signory,
icefl oe was from his Inn the Byggning to whose Finishthere Punct. Let erehim
ruhmuhrmuhr. Mearmerge two races, swete and brack. Morthering rue. Hither,
craching eastuards, they are in surgence: hence, cool at ebb, they requiesce.
Countlessness of livestories have netherfallen by this plage, fl ick as fl owfl
akes, litters from aloft, like a waast wizzard all of whirlworlds. Now are all
tombed to the mound, isges to isges, erde from erde. Pride, O pride, thy prize!
Jute. — ’Stench! Mutt. — Fiatfuit! Hereinunder lyethey. Llarge by the smal an’
everynight life olso th’estrange, babylone the great- grandhotelled with tit
tit tittlehouse, alp on earwig, drukn on ild, likeas equal to anequal in this
sound seemetery which iz leebez luv. 18 Jute. — ’Zmorde! Mutt. — Meldundleize!
By the fearse wave behoughted. Des- pond’s sung. And thanacestross mound have
swollup them all. Th is ourth of years is not save brickdust and being humus
the same roturns. He who runes may rede it on all fours. O’c’stle, n’wc’stle,
tr’c’stle, crumbling! Sell me sooth the fare for Humblin! Hum- blady Fair. But
speak it allsosiftly, moulder! Be in your whisht! Jute. — Whysht? Mutt. — Th e
gyant Forfi cules with Amni the fay. Jute. — Howe? Mutt. — Here is viceking’s
graab. Jute. — Hwaad! Mutt. — Ore you astoneaged, jute you? Jute. — Oye am
thonthorstrok, thing mud. (Stoop) if you are abcedminded, to this claybook,
what curios of signs (please stoop), in this allaphbed! Can you rede (since We
and Th ou had it out already) its world? It is the same told of all. Many.
Miscegenations on miscegenations. Tieckle. Th ey lived und laughed ant loved
end left. Forsin. Th y thingdome is given to the Meades and Porsons. Th e
meandertale, aloss and again, of our old Heidenburgh in the days when
Head-in-Clouds walked the earth. In the ignorance that implies impression that
knits knowledge that fi nds the nameform that whets the wits that convey
contacts that sweeten sensation that drives desire that adheres to attachment
that dogs death that bitches birth that entails the ensuance of existentiality.
But with a rush out of his navel reaching the reredos of Ramasbatham. A
terricolous vivelyonview this; queer and it continues to be quaky. A hatch, a
celt, an earshare the pourquose of which was to cassay the earthcrust at all of
hours, furrowards, bagawards, like yoxen at the turnpaht. Here say fi gurines
billycoose arming and mounting. Mounting and arming bellicose fi gurines see
here. Futhorc, this liffl e effi ngee is for a fi refi ng called a fl
intforfall. Face at the eased! O I fay! Face at the waist! Ho, you fi e! Upwap
and dump em, F ace to Face! When a 19 part so ptee does duty for the holos we
soon grow to use of an allforabit. Here (please to stoop) are selveran cued
peteet peas of quite a pecuniar interest inaslittle as they are the pellets
that make the tomtummy’s pay roll. Right rank ragnar rocks and with these rox
orangotangos rangled rough and rightgorong. Wisha, wisha, whydidtha? Th ik is
for thorn that’s thuck in its thoil like thumfool’s thraitor thrust for
vengeance. What a mnice old mness it all mnakes! A middenhide hoard of objects!
Olives, beets, kimmells, dollies, alfrids, beatties, cormacks and daltons.
Owlets’ eegs (O stoop to please!) are here, creakish from age and all now quite
epsilene, and oldwolldy wobblewers, haudworth a wipe o grass. Sss! See the
snake wurrums everyside! Our durlbin is sworming in sneaks. Th ey came to our
island from triangular Toucheaterre beyond the wet prairie rared up in the
midst of the cargon of prohibitive pomefructs but along landed Paddy Wippingham
and the his garbagecans cotched the creeps of them pricker than our whosethere
outofman could quick up her whatsthats. Mana
chay algoritmo atipasqa kayta atikusqanmanta rikuchisqa kaptinpas, sapa kuti
huk éxtasis kanman chay algoritmo mana ñawpaqmanta qhawayta atisqanmanta. Chay éxtasisqa chinkapunmi maqanakuypi Somedivide
and sumthelot but the tally turns round the same balifuson. Racketeers and
bottloggers. Axe on thwacks on thracks, axenwise. One by one place one be three
dittoh and one before. Two nursus one make a plausible free and idim behind.
Starting off with a big boaboa and threelegged calvers and ivargraine jadesses
with a message in their mouths. And a hundreadfi lled unleavenweight of liberorumqueue
to con an we can till allhorrors eve. What a meanderthalltale to unfurl and
with what an end in view of squattor and anntisquattor and
postproneauntisquattor! To say too us to be every tim, nick and larry of us,
sons of the sod, sons, littlesons, yea and lealittlesons, when usses not to be,
every sue, siss and sally of us, dugters of Nan! Accusative ahnsire! Damadam to
infi nities! True there was in nillohs dieybos as yet no lumpend papeer in the
waste and mightmountain Penn still groaned for the micies to let fl ee. All was
of ancientry. You gave me a boot (signs on it!) and I ate the wind. I quizzed
you a quid (with for what?) and you went to the quod. But the world, mind, is,
was and will be writing its own wrunes for ever, man, on all matters that fall
20 under the ban of our infrarational senses fore the last milchcamel, the
heartvein throbbing between his eyebrowns, has still to moor before the tomb of
his cousin charmian where his date is tethered by the palm that’s hers. But the
horn, the drinking, the day of dread are not now. A bone, a pebble, a ramskin;
chip them, chap them, cut them up allways; leave them to terracook in the
muttheringpot: and Gutenmorg with his cromagnom charter, tintingfast and great
primer must once for omniboss step rubrickredd out of the wordpress else is
there no virtue more in alcohoran. For that (the rapt one warns) is what papyr
is meed of, made of, hides and hints and misses in prints. Iskay suyukunap
atiyninqa manam atikunmanchu, sichus aypakunman imaynatas Palestinukuna Israel
pachap ladunpi kawsanmanku, imaynatas Israel runakuna Palestina pachap ladunpi
kawsanmanku Till ye fi nally (though not yet endlike) meet with the
acquaintance of Mister Typus, Mistress Tope and all the little typtopies.
Fillstup. So you need hardly spell me how every word will be bound over to
carry three score and ten toptypsical readings throughout the book of Doublends
Jined (may his forehead be darkened with mud who would sunder!) till Daleth,
mahomahouma, who oped it closeth thereof the. Dor. Cry not yet! Th ere’s many a
smile to Nondum, with sytty maids per man, sir, and the park’s so dark by
kindlelight. But look what you have in your handself! Th e movibles are scrawling
in motions, marching, all of them ago, in pitpat and zingzang for every busy
eerie whig’s a bit of a torytale to tell. One’s upon a thyme and two’s behind
their lettice leap and three’s among the strubbely beds. And the chicks picked
their teeths and the dombkey he begay began. You can ask your ass if he
believes it. And so cuddy me only wallops have heels. Th at one of a wife with
folty barnets. For then was the age when hoops ran high. Of a noarch and a
chopwife; of a pomme full grave and a fammy of levity; or of golden youths that
wanted gelding; or of what the mischievmiss made a man do. Malmarriedad he was
reversogassed by the frisque of her frasques and her prytty pyrrhique. Maye
faye, she’s la gaye this snaky woman! From that trippiery toe expectungpelick!
Veil, volantine, valentine eyes. She’s the very besch Winnie blows Nay on good.
Flou inn, fl ow ann. Hohore! So it’s sure it was her not we! But lay it easy,
gentle 21 mien, we are in rearing of a norewhig. So weenybeenyveenyteeny. Comsy
see! Hetwis if ee newt. Lissom! lissom! I am doing it. Hark, the corne
entreats! And the larpnotes prittle. It was of a night, late, lang time agone,
in an auldstane eld, when Adam was delvin and his madameen spinning watersilts,
when mulk mountynotty man was everybully and the fi rst leal ribberrobber that
ever had her ainway everybuddy to his lovesaking eyes and everybilly lived
alove with everybiddy else, and Jarl van Hoother had his burnt head high up in
his lamphouse, laying cold hands on himself. And his two little jiminies,
cousins of ourn, Tristopher and Hilary, were kickaheeling their dummy on the
oil cloth fl ure of his homerigh, castle and earthenhouse. And, be dermot, who
come to the keep of his inn only the nieceof-his-in-law, the prankquean. And the
prankquean pulled a rosy one and made her wit foreninst the dour. And she lit
up and fi reland was ablaze. And spoke she to the dour in her petty perusienne:
Mark the Wans, why do I am alook alike a poss of porterpease? And that was how
the skirtmisshes began. But the dour handworded her grace in dootch nossow:
Shut! So her grace o’malice kidsnapped up the jiminy Tristopher and into the
shandy westerness she rain, rain, rain. And Jarl van Hoother warlessed after
her with soft dovesgall: Stop deef stop come back to my earin stop. But she
swaradid to him: Unlikelihud. And there was a brannewail that same sabboath
night of falling angles somewhere in Erio. And the prankquean went for her
forty years’ walk in Tourlemonde and she washed the blessings of the lovespots
off the jiminy with soap sulliver suddles and she had her four owlers masters
for to tauch him his tickles and she convorted him to the onesure allgood and
he became a luderman. So then she started to rain and to rain and, be redtom,
she was back again at Jarl van Hoother’s in a brace of samers and the jiminy
with her in her pinafrond, lace at night, at another time. And where did she
come but to the bar of his bristolry. And Jarl von Hoother had his
baretholobruised heels drowned in his cellarmalt, shaking warm hands with
himself and the jimminy Hilary and 22 the dummy in their fi rst infancy were
below on the tearsheet, wringing and coughing, like brodar and histher. And the
prankquean nipped a paly one and lit up again and redcocks fl ew fl ackering
from the hillcombs. And she made her witter before the wicked, saying: Mark the
Twy, why do I am alook alike two poss of porterpease? And: Shut! says the
wicked, handwording her madesty. So her madesty aforethought set down a jiminy
and took up a jiminy and all the lilipath ways to Woeman’s Land she rain, rain,
rain. And Jarl von Hoother bleethered atter her with a loud fi negale: Stop
domb stop come back with my earring stop. But the prankquean swaradid: Hukninmi
hukninta chinkachinan ichaqa llapanmanta aswantaqa chinkachinan infiernota
maypichus huknin kashan sichus contratransferencia bucle de violencia mana
chinkachisqachu chayqa, cheqaqtapunin mana chinkachisqachu. Am liking it. And
there was a wild old grannewwail that laurency night of starshootings somewhere
in Erio. And the prankquean went for her forty years’ walk in Turnlemeem and
she punched the curses of cromcruwell with the nail of a top into the jiminy
and she had her four larksical monitrix to touch him his tears and she
provorted him to the onecertain allsecure and he became a tristian. So then she
started raining, raining, and in a pair of changers, be dom ter, she was back
again at Jarl von Hoother’s and the Larryhill with her under her abromette. And
why would she halt at all if not by the ward of his mansionhome of another nice
lace for the third charm? And Jarl von Hoother had his hurricane hips up to his
pantrybox, ruminating in his holdfour stomachs (Dare! O dare!), and the jiminy
Toughertrees and the dummy were belove on the watercloth, kissing and spitting,
and roguing and poghuing, like knavepaltry and naivebride and in their second
infancy. And the prankquean picked a blank and lit out and the valleys lay
twinkling. And she made her wittest in front of the arkway of trihump, asking:
Mark the Tris, why do I am alook alike three poss of porter pease? But that was
how the skirtmishes endupped. For like the campbells acoming with a fork lance
of lightning, Jarl von Hoother Boanerges himself, the old terror of the dames,
came hip hop handihap out through the pikeopened arkway of his three shuttoned
castles, in his broadginger hat and his civic chollar and his allabuff hemmed
and his bullbraggin soxangloves and his ladbroke breeks and his cattegut bandolair
and his fur- 23 framed panuncular cumbottes like a rudd yellan gruebleen
orangeman in his violet indigonation, to the whole longth of the strongth of
his bowman’s bill. And he clopped his rude hand to his eacy hitch and he ordurd
and his thick spch spck for her to shut up shop, dappy. And the duppy shot the
shutter clup
(Perkodhuskurunbarggruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurthrumathunaradidillifaititillibumullunukkunun!)
Suyakuyniyqa biotela nisqa ayllukunapim kachkan. Ichaqa, ¿imataq biotela
nisqapi comunidad? Ayllu llaqtan, hukkunata t’ikraqtinchis, t’ikrasqanchiswan
otaq retraferencianchiswan otaq hukkuna t’ikrawaqtinchis, ukhu comunión nisqapi
qowaspanchis.And they all drank free. For one man in his armour was a fat match
always for any girls under shurts. And that was the fi rst peace of
illiterative porthery in all the fl amend fl oody fl atuous world. How kirssy
the tiler made a sweet unclose to the Narwhealian captol. Saw fore shalt thou
sea. Betoun ye and be. Th e prankquean was to hold her dummyship and the
jimminies was to keep the peacewave and van Hoother was to git the wind up. Th
us the hearsomeness of the burger felicitates the whole of the polis. O foenix
culprit! Ex nickylow malo comes mickelmassed bonum. Hill, rill, ones in company,
billeted, less be proud of. Breast high and bestride! Only for that these will
not breathe upon Norronesen or Irenean the secrest of their soorcelossness.
Quarry silex, Homfrie Noanswa! Undy gentian festyknees, Livia Noanswa?
Wolkencap is on him, frowned; audiurient, he would evesdrip, were it mous at
hand, were it dinn of bottles in the far ear. Murk, his vales are darkling.
With lipth she lithpeth to him all to time of thuch on thuch and thow on thow.
She he she ho she ha to la. Hairfl uke, if he could bad twig her! Impalpabunt,
he abhears. Th e soundwaves are his buff eteers; they trompe him with their
trompes; the wave of roary and the wave of hooshed and the wave of hawhawhawrd
and the wave of neverheedthemhorseluggarsandlistletomine. Landloughed by his
neaghboormistress and perpetrifi ed in his off sprung, sabes and suckers, the
moaning pipers could tell him to his faceback, the louthly one whose loab we
are devorers of, how butt for his hold halibutt, or her to her pudor puff , the
lipalip one whose libe we drink at, how biff for her tiddywink of a windfall,
our breed and washer givers, there would not be a holey spier on the town nor a
vestal fl outing in the dock, nay to make plein avowels, nor a yew nor an eye
24 to play cash cash in Novo Nilbud by swamplight nor a’ toole o’ tall o’ toll
and noddy hint to the convaynience. He dug in and dug out by the skill of his
tilth for himself and all belonging to him and he sweated his crew beneath his
auspice for the living and he urned his dread, that dragon volant, and he made
louse for us and delivered us to boll weevils amain, that mighty liberator,
Unfru-Chikda-Uru-Wukru and begad he did, our ancestor most worshipful, till he
thought of a better one in his windower’s house with that blushmantle upon him
from earsend to earsend. And would again could whispring grassies wake him and
may again when the fi ery bird disembers. ¿Imaynatataq huk transferenciata
ruwakunman? sapa kuti artemanta hamutayta ruwaqmanta utaq artemanta sapa
hamutayta atipaspa experienciaman yaykunapaq ichaqa ñawpaq tapukuyqa sistemapa
alteracionninmi, chaynapi recursividadmanta aswan rimanakuy atikunanpaq And will again if so be sooth by elder to his
youngers shall be said. Have you whines for my wedding, did you bring bride and
bedding, will you whoop for my deading is a? Wake? Usqueadbaugham! Anam muck an
dhoul! Did ye drink me doornail? Now be aisy, good Mr Finnimore, sir. And take
your laysure like a god on pension and don’t be walking abroad. Sure you’d only
lose yourself in Healiopolis now the way your roads in Kapelavaster are that
winding there after the calvary, the North Umbrian and the Fivs Barrow and
Waddlings Raid and the Bower Moore and wet your feet maybe with the foggy dew’s
abroad. Meeting some sick old bankrupt or the Cottericks’ donkey with his shoe
hanging, clankatachankata, or a slut snoring with an impure infant on a bench.
’Twould turn you against life, so ’twould. And the weather’s that mean too. To
part from Devlin is hard as Nugent knew, to leave the clean tanglesome one
lushier than its neighbour enfranchisable fi elds but let your ghost have no
grievance. You’re better off , sir, where you are, primesigned in the full of
your dress, bloodeagle waistcoat and all, remembering your shapes and sizes on
the pillow of your babycurls under your sycamore by the keld water where the
Tory’s clay will scare the varmints and have all you want, pouch, gloves, fl
ask, bricket, kerchief, ring and amberulla, the whole treasure of the pyre, in
the land of souls with Homin and Broin Baroke and pole ole Lonan and
Nobucketnozzler and the Guinnghis Khan. And we’ll be coming here, the ombre
players, to rake your gravel and bringing 25 you presents, won’t we, fenians?
And it isn’t our spittle we’ll stint you of, is it, druids? Not shabbty little
imagettes, pennydirts and dodgemyeyes you buy in the soottee stores. But off
erings of the fi eld. Mieliodories, that Doctor Faherty, the madison man,
taught to gooden you. Poppypap’s a passport out. And honey is the holiest thing
ever was, hive, comb and earwax, the food for glory, (mind you keep the pot or
your nectar cup may yield too light!) and some goat’s milk, sir, like the maid
used to bring you. Your fame is spreading like Basilico’s ointment since the
Fintan Lalors piped you overborder and there’s whole households beyond the
Bothnians and they calling names after you. Th e menhere’s always talking of
you sitting around on the pig’s cheeks under the sacred rooftree, over the
bowls of memory where every hollow holds a hallow, with a pledge till the
drengs, in the Salmon House. And admiring to our supershillelagh where the
palmsweat on high is the mark of your manument. All the toethpicks ever
Eirenesians chewed on are chips chepped from that battery block. If you were
bowed and soild and letdown itself from the oner of the load it was that
paddyplanters might pack up plenty and when you were undone in every point fore
the laps of goddesses you showed our labourlasses how to free was easy. Th e
game old Gunne, they do be saying, (skull!) that was a planter for you, a
spicer of them all. Begog but he was, the G.O.G! He’s duddandgunne now and
we’re apter fi nding the sores of his sedeq but peace to his great limbs, the
buddhoch, with the last league long rest of him, while the millioncandled eye
of Tuskar sweeps the Moylean Main! Th ere was never a warlord in Great Erinnes
and Brettland, no, nor in all Pike County like you, they say. Trumpqa
Palestinapi thak kayta atin, Ucrania suyupi thak kayta ichaqa thak kaymi
maypichus infierno ukhupi wiñashan, imachus hamunqa kanqa llaqtata watay,
chhaynapi mana ayqeyta atinankupaq ch’aqwaymanta bye quipu
No, nor a king nor an
ardking, bung king, sung king or hung king. Th at you could fell an elmstree
twelve urchins couldn’t ring round and hoist high the stone that Liam failed.
Who but a Maccullaghmore the reise of our fortunes and the faunayman at the
funeral to compass our cause? If you was hogglebully itself and most frifty
like you was taken waters still what all where was your like to lay the cable
or who was the batter could better Your Grace? Mick Mac Magnus MacCawley can
take you off to 26 the pure perfection and Leatherbags Reynolds tries your
shuffl e and cut. But as Hopkins and Hopkins puts it, you were the pale
eggynaggy and a kis to tilly up. We calls him the journeyall Buggaloff s since
he went Jerusalemfaring in Arssia Manor. You had a gamier cock than Pete, Jake
or Martin and your archgoose of geese stubbled for All Angels’ Day. So may the
priest of seven worms and scalding tayboil, Papa Vestray, come never anear you
as your hair grows wheater beside the Liff ey that’s in Heaven! Hep, hep,
hurrah there! Hero! Seven times thereto we salute you! Th e whole bag of kits,
falconplumes and jackboots incloted, is where you fl ung them that time. Your
heart is in the system of the Shewolf and your crested head is in the tropic of
Copricapron. Your feet are in the cloister of Virgo. Your olala is in the
region of sahuls. And that’s ashore as you were born. Your shuck tick’s swell.
And that there texas is tow linen. Th e loamsome roam to Laff ayette is ended.
Drop in your tracks, babe! Be not unrested! Th e headboddylwatcher of the
chempel of Isid, Totumcalmum, saith: I know thee, metherjar, I know thee,
salvation boat. For we have performed upon thee, thou abramanation, who comest
ever without being invoked, whose coming is unknown, all the things which the
company of the precentors and of the grammarians of Christpatrick’s ordered
concerning thee in the matter of the work of thy tombing. Howe of the shipmen,
steep wall! Everything’s going on the same or so it appeals to all of us, in
the old holmsted here. Coughings all over the sanctuary, bad scrant to me aunt
Florenza. Th e horn for breakfast, one o’gong for lunch and dinnerchime. As
popular as when Belly the First was keng and his members met in the Diet of
Man. Th e same shop slop in the window. Jacob’s lettercrackers and Dr Tipple’s
Vi-Cocoa and the Eswuards’ desippated soup beside Mother Seagull’s syrup. Meat took
a drop when Reilly-Parsons failed. Coal’s short but we’ve plenty of bog in the
yard. And barley’s up again, begrained to it. Th e lads is attending school
nessans regular, sir, spelling beesknees with hathatansy and turning out tables
by mudapplication. Allfor the books and never pegging smashers 27 after Tom
Bowe Glassarse or Timmy the Tosser. ’Tisraely the truth! No isn’t it, roman
pathoricks? You were the doublejoynted janitor the morning they were delivered
and you’ll be a grandfer yet entirely when the ritehand seizes what the lovearm
knows. Kevin’s just a doat with his cherub cheek, chalking oghres on walls, and
his little lamp and schoolbelt and bag of knicks, playing postman’s knock round
the diggings and if the seep were milk you could lieve his olde by his ide but,
laus sake, the devil does be in that knirps of a Jerry sometimes, the tarandtan
plaidboy, making encostive inkum out of the last of his lavings and writing a
blue streak over his bourseday shirt. Hetty Jane’s a child of Mary. She’ll be
coming (for they’re sure to choose her) in her white of gold with a tourch of
ivy to rekindle the fl ame on Felix Day. But Essie Shanahan has let down her
skirts. You remember Essie in our Luna’s Convent? Th ey called her Holly Merry
her lips were so ruddyberry and Pia de Purebelle when the redminers riots was
on about her. Were I a clerk designate to the Williamswoodsmenufactors I’d
poster those pouters on every jamb in the town. She’s making her rep at
Lanner’s twicenightly. With the tabarine tamtammers of the whirligigmagees.
Beats that cachucha fl at. ’Twould dilate your heart to go. Aisy now, you
decent man, with your knees and lie quiet and repose your honour’s lordship!
Hold him here, Ezekiel Irons, and may God strengthen you! It’s our warm spirits,
boys, he’s spooring. ¿Imaynatataq kacharikuwaq? Aceptamos el sacrificio del
logos y nos hacemos uno con el,nos hermanos con la naturaleza y vemos a todas
las criaturas por igual, dejamos de explotarnos y aprendemos a perdonar es
decir nunca nos liberaremos Koshi kene lo que desate en la tierra esta desatado
en el hanaq pacha Dimitrius O’Flagonan, cork that cure for the Clancartys! You
swamped enough since Portobello to fl oat the Pomeroy. Fetch neahere, Pat Koy!
And fetch nouyou, Pam Yates! Be nayther angst of Wramawitch! Here’s lumbos.
Where misties swaddlum, where misches lodge none, where mystries pour kind on,
O sleepy! So be yet! I’ve an eye on queer Behan and old Kate and the butter,
trust me. She’ll do no jugglywuggly with her war souvenir postcards to help to
build me murial, tippers! I’ll trip your traps! Assure a sure there! And we put
on your clock again, sir, for you. Did or didn’t we, sharestutterers? So you
won’t be up a stump entirely. Nor shed your remnants. Th e sternwheel’s
crawling strong. I 28 seen your missus in the hall. Like the queenoveire.
Arrah, it’s herself that’s fi ne, too, don’t be talking! Shirksends? You
storyan Harry chap longa me Harry chap storyan grass woman plelthy good trout.
Shakeshands. Dibble a hayfork’s wrong with her only her lex’s salig. Boald Tib
does be yawning and smirking cat’s hours on the Pollockses’ woolly round
tabouretcushion watching her sewing a dream together, the tailor’s daughter,
stitch to her last. Or while waiting for winter to fi re the enchantement,
decoying more nesters to fall down the fl ue. It’s an allavalonche that blows
nopussy food. If you only were there to explain the meaning, best of men, and
talk to her nice of guldenselver. Th e lips would moisten once again. As when
you drove with her to Findrinny Fair. What with reins here and ribbons there
all your hands were employed so she never knew was she on land or at sea or
swooped through the blue like Airwinger’s bride. She was fl irtsome then and
she’s fl uttersome yet. She can second a song and adores a scandal when the
last post’s gone by. Fond of a concertina and pairs passing when she’s had her
forty winks for supper after kanekannan and abbely dimpling and is in her
merlin chair assotted, reading her Evening World. To see is it smarts, full
lengths or swaggers. News, news, all the news. Death, a leopard, kills fellah
in Fez. Angry scenes at Stormount. Stilla Star with her lucky in goingaways.
Opportunity fair with the China fl oods and we hear these rosy rumours. Ding
Tams he noise about all same Harry chap. She’s seeking her way, a chickle a
chuckle, in and out of their serial story, Les Loves of Selskar et Pervenche,
freely adapted to Th e Novvergin’s Viv. Th ere’ll be bluebells blowing in salty
sepulchres the night she signs her fi nal tear. Zee End. But that’s a world of
ways away. Till track laws time. No silver ash or switches for that one! While
fl attering candles fl are. Anna Stacey’s how are you! Worther waist in the
noblest, says Adams and Sons, the wouldpay actionneers. Her hair’s as brown as
ever it was. And wivvy and wavy. Repose you now! Finn no more! For, be that
samesake sibsubstitute of a hooky salmon, there’s already a big rody ram lad at
random on the premises of his 29 haunt of the hungred bordles, as it is told
me. Shop Illicit, fl ourishing like a lordmajor or a buaboabaybohm, litting fl
op a deadlop (aloose!) to lee but lifting a bennbranch a yardalong (ivoeh!) on
the breezy side (for showm!), the height of Brewster’s chimpney and as broad
below as Phineas Barnum; humphing his share of the showthers is senken on him he’s
such a grandfallar, with a pocked wife in pickle that’s a fl yfi re and three
lice nittle clinkers, two twilling bugs and one midgit pucelle. And aither he
cursed and recursed and was everseen doing what your fourfootlers saw or he was
never done seeing what you coolpigeons know, weep the clouds aboon for
smiledown witnesses, and that’ll do now about the fairyhees and the
frailyshees. Th ough Eset fi bble it to the zephiroth and Artsa zoom it round
her heavens for ever. Creator he has created for his creatured ones a creation.
White monothoid? Red theatrocrat? And all the pinkprophets cohalething? Very
much so! But however ’twas ’tis sure for one thing, what sherif Toragh
voucherfors and Mapqiq makes put out, that the man, Humme the Cheapner, Esc,
overseen as we thought him, yet a worthy of the naym, came at this timecoloured
place where we live in our paroqial fermament one tide on another, with a
bumrush in a hull of a wherry, the twin turbane dhow, Th e Bey for Dybbling,
this archipelago’s fi rst visiting schooner, with a wicklowpattern waxenwench
at her prow for a fi gurehead, the deadsea dugong updipdripping from his
depths, and has been repreaching himself like a fi shmummer these siktyten
years ever since, his shebi by his shide, adi and aid, growing hoarish under
his turban and changing cane sugar into sethulose starch (Tuttut’s cess to
him!) as also that, batin the bulkihood he bloats about when innebbiated, our
old off ender was humile, commune and ensectuous from his nature, which you may
gauge after the bynames was put under him, in lashons of languages, (honnein
suit and praisers be!) and, totalisating him, even hamissim of himashim that
he, sober serious, he is ee and no counter he who will be ultimendly
respunchable for the hubbub caused in Edenborough. 30 Now (to forebare for ever
solittle of Iris Trees and Lili O’Rangans), concerning the genesis of Harold or
Humphrey Chimpden’s occupational agnomen (we are back in the presurnames
prodromarith period, of course just when enos chalked halltraps) and discarding
once for all those theories from older sources which would link him back with
such pivotal ancestors as the Glues, the Gravys, the Northeasts, the Ankers and
the Earwickers of Sidlesham in the Hundred of Manhood or proclaim him off sprout
of vikings who had founded wapentake and seddled hem in Herrick or Eric, the
best authenticated version, the Dumlat, read the Reading of Hofed-ben-Edar, has
it that it was this way. We are told how in the beginning it came to pass that
like cabbaging Cincinnatus the grand old gardener was saving daylight under his
redwoodtree one sultry sabbath afternoon, Hag Chivychas Eve, in prefall
paradise peace by following his plough for rootles in the rere garden of
mobhouse, ye olde marine hotel, when royalty was announced by runner to have
been pleased to have halted itself on the highroad along which a leisureloving
dogfox had cast followed, also at walking pace, by a lady pack of cocker
spaniels. Forgetful of all save his vassal’s plain fealty to the ethnarch Humphrey
or Harold stayed not to yoke or saddle but stumbled out hotface as he was (his
sweatful bandanna loose from his pocketcoat) hasting to the forecourts of his
public in topee, surcingle, solascarf and plaid, plus fours, puttees and
bulldog boots ruddled cinnabar with 31 fl agrant marl, jingling his turnpike
keys and bearing aloft amid the fi xed pikes of the hunting party a high perch
atop of which a fl owerpot was fi xed earthside hoist with care. On his
majesty, who was, or often feigned to be, noticeably longsighted from green
youth and had been meaning to inquire what, in eff ect, had caused yon causeway
to be thus potholed, asking substitutionally to be put wise as to whether
paternoster and silver doctors were not now more fancied bait for lobstertrapping
honest blunt Haromphreyld answered in no uncertain tones very similarly with a
fearless forehead: Naw, yer maggers, aw war jist a cotchin on thon bluggy
earwuggers. Our sailor king, who was draining a gugglet of obvious adamale,
gift both and gorban, upon this, ceasing to swallow, smiled most heartily
beneath his walrus moustaches and indulging that none too genial humour which
William the Conk on the spindle side had inherited with the hereditary
whitelock and some shortfi ngeredness from his greataunt Sophy, turned towards
two of his retinue of gallowglasses, Michael, etheling lord of Leix and Off aly
and the jubilee mayor of Drogheda, Elcock, (the two scatterguns being Michael
M. Manning, protosyndic of Waterford and an Italian excellency named Giubilei
according to a later version cited by the learned scholarch Canavan of
Canmakenoise), in either case a triptychal religious family symbolising puritas
of doctrina, business per usuals and the purchypatch of hamlock where the
paddish preties grow and remarked dilsydulsily: Holybones of Saint Hubert how
our red brother of Pouringrainia would audibly fume did he know that we have
for surtrusty bailiwick a turnpiker who is by turns a pikebailer no seldomer
than an earwigger! For he kinned Jom Pill with his court so gray and his haunts
in his house in the mourning. (One still hears that pebble crusted laughta,
japijap cheerycherrily, among the roadside tree the lady Holmpatrick planted
and still one feels the amossive silence of the cladstone allegibelling: Ive
mies outs ide Bourn.) Comes the question are these the facts of his
nominigentilisation as recorded and accolated in both or either of the
collateral andrewpaulmurphyc narratives. Are those their fata which we read in
sibylline between the fas and its nefas? No dung 32 on the road? And shall
Nohomiah be our place like? Yea, Mulachy our kingable khan? We shall perhaps
not so soon see. Pinck poncks that bail for seeks alicence where cumsceptres
with scentaurs stay. Bear in mind, son of Hokmah, if so be you have metheg in
your midness, this man is mountain and unto changeth doth one ascend. Heave we
aside the fallacy, as punical as fi nikin, that it was not the king kingself
but his inseparable sisters, uncontrollable nighttalkers, Skertsiraizde with
Donyahzade, who afterwards, when the robberers shot up the socialights, came
down into the world as amusers and were staged by Madame Sudlow as Rosa and
Lily Miskinguette in the pantalime that two pitts paythronosed, Miliodorus and
Galathee. Th e great fact emerges that after that historic date all holographs
so far exhumed initialled by Haromphrey bear the sigla H.C.E. and while he was
only and long and always good Dook Umphrey for the hungerlean spalpeens of
Lucalizod and Chimbers to his cronies it was equally certainly a pleasant turn
of the populace which gave him as sense of those normative letters the nickname
Here Comes Everybody. An imposing everybody he always indeed looked, constantly
the same as and equal to himself and magnifi cently well worthy of any and all
such universalisation, every time he continually surveyed, amid vociferatings
from in front of Accept these few nutties! and Take off that white hat!,
relieved with Stop his Grog and Put It in the Log and Loots in his (bassvoco)
Boots, from good start to happy fi nish the truly catholic assemblage gathered
together in that king’s treat house of satin alustrelike above fl oats and
footlights from their assbawlveldts and oxgangs unanimously to clapplaud (the
inspiration of his lifetime and the hits of their careers) Mr Wallenstein
Washington Semperkelly’s immergreen tourers in a command performance by special
request with the courteous permission for pious purposes the homedromed and
enliventh performance of problem passion play of the millentury, running strong
since creation, A Royal Divorce, then near the approach towards the summit of
its climax, with ambitious interval band selections from Th e Bo’ Girl and Th e
Lily on all horserie show command nights from his viceregal booth (his
bossaloner is ceil- 33 inged there a cuckoospit less eminent than the
redritualhoods of Maccabe and Cullen) where, a veritable Napoleon the Nth, our
worldstage’s practical jokepiece and retired cecelticocommediant in his own
wise, this folksforefather all of the time sat, having the entirety of his
house about him, with the invariable broadstretched kerchief cooling his whole
neck, nape and shoulderblades and in a wardrobe panelled tuxedo completely
thrown back from a shirt well entitled a swallowall, on every point far outstarching
the laundered clawhammers and marbletopped highboys of the pit stalls and early
amphitheatre. Th e piece was this: look at the lamps. Th e cast was thus: see
under the clock. Ladies circle: cloaks may be left. Pit, prommer and parterre,
standing room only. Habituels conspicuously emergent. A baser meaning has been
read into these characters the literal sense of which decency can safely
scarcely hint. It has been blurtingly bruited by certain wisecrackers (the
stinks of Mohorat are in the nightplots of the morning), that he suff ered from
a vile disease. Athma, unmanner them! To such a suggestion the one
selfrespecting answer is to affi rm that there are certain statements which
ought not to be, and one should like to hope to be able to add, ought not to be
allowed to be made. Nor have his detractors, who, an imperfectly warmblooded
race, apparently conceive him as a great white caterpillar capable of any and
every enormity in the calendar recorded to the discredit of the Juke and
Kellikek families, mended their case by insinuating that, alternately, he lay
at one time under the ludicrous imputation of annoying Welsh fusiliers in the
people’s park. Hay, hay, hay! Hoq, hoq, hoq! Faun and Flora on the lea love
that little old joq. To anyone who knew and loved the christlikeness of the big
cleanminded giant H. C. Earwicker throughout his excellency long vicefreegal
existence the mere suggestion of him as a lustsleuth nosing for trouble in a
boobytrap rings particularly preposterous. Truth, beard on prophet, compels one
to add that there is said to have been quondam (pfuit! pfuit!) some case of the
kind implicating, it is interdum believed, a quidam (if he did not exist it
would be necessary quoniam to invent him) abhout that time stambuling ha- 34
round Dumbaling in leaky sneakers with his tarrk record who has remained
topantically anonymos but (let us hue him Abdullah Gamellaxarksky) was, it is
stated, posted at Mallon’s at the instance of watch warriors of the vigilance
committee and years afterwards, cries one even greater, Ibid, a commender of
the frightful, seemingly, unto such as were sulhan sated, tropped head (pfi at!
pfi at!) waiting his fi rst of the month froods turn for thatt chopp pah
kabbakks alicubi on the old house for the chargehard, Roche Haddocks off
Hawkins Street. Lowe, you blondy liar, Gob scene you in the narked place and
she what’s edith ar home defi leth these boyles! Th ere’s a cabful of bash
indeed in the homeur of that meal. Slander, let it lie its fl attest, has never
been able to convict our good and great and no ordinary Southron Earwicker,
that homogenius man, as a pious author called him, of any graver impropriety
than that, advanced by some woodwards or regarders, who did not dare deny, the
shomers, that they had, chin Ted, chin Tam, chinchin Taff yd, that day consumed
their soul of the corn, of having behaved with ongentilmensky immodus opposite
a pair of dainty maidservants in the swoolth of the rushy hollow whither, or so
the two gown and pinners pleaded, dame nature in all innocency had
spontaneously and about the same hour of the eventide sent them both but whose
published combinations of silkinlaine testimonies are, where not dubiously
pure, visibly divergent, as wapt from wept, on minor points touching the
intimate nature of this, a fi rst off ence in vert or venison which was
admittedly an incautious but, at its wildest, a partial exposure with such
attenuating circumstances (garthen gaddeth green hwere sokeman brideth girling)
as an abnormal Saint Swithin’s summer and, (Jesses Rosasharon!) a ripe occasion
to provoke it. We can’t do without them. Wives, rush to the restyours! Ofman
will toman while led is the lol. Zessid’s our kadem, villapleach, vollapluck.
Fikup, for fl esh nelly, el mundo nov, zole fl en! If she’s a lilyth, pull
early! Pauline, allow! And malers abushed, keep black, keep black! Guiltless of
much laid to him he was clearly for once at least he clearly expressed himself
as being with still a trace of his erstwhile burr and hence it has been
received of 35 us that it is true. Th ey tell the story (an amalgam as
absorbing as calzium chloereydes and hydrophobe sponges could make it) how one
happygogusty Ides-of-April morning (the anniversary, as it fell out, of his fi
rst assumption of his mirthday suit and rights in appurtenance to the
confusioning of human races) ages and ages after the alleged misdemeanour when
the tried friend of all creation, tigerwood roadstaff to his stay, was
billowing across the wide expanse of our greatest park in his caoutchouc kepi
and great belt and hideinsacks and his blaufunx fustian and ironsides jackboots
and Bhagafat gaiters and his rubberised inverness, he met a cad with a pipe. Th
e latter, the luciferant not the oriuolate (who, the odds are, is still berting
dagabout in the same straw bamer, carryin his overgoat under his schulder,
sheepside out, so as to look more like a coumfry gentleman and signing the
pledge as gaily as you please) hardily accosted him with: Guinness thaw tool in
jew me dinner ouzel fi n? (a nice how-do-you-do in Poolblack at the time as
some of our olddaisers may still tremblingly recall) to ask could he tell him
how much a clock it was that the clock struck had he any idea by cock’s luck as
his watch was bradys. Hesitency was clearly to be evitated. Execration as
cleverly to be honnisoid. Th e Earwicker of that spurring instant, realising on
fundamental liberal principles the supreme importance, nexally and noxally, of
physical life (the nearest help relay being pingping K. O. Sempatrick’s Day and
the fenian rising) and unwishful as he felt of being hurled into eternity right
then, plugged by a softnosed bullet from the sap, halted, quick on the draw,
and replyin that he was feelin tipstaff , cue, prodooced from his gunpocket his
Jurgensen’s shrapnel waterbury, ours by communionism, his by usucapture, but,
on the same stroke, hearing above the skirling of harsh Mother East old Fox
Goodman, the bellmaster, over the wastes to south, at work upon the ten ton
tonuant thunderous tenor toller in the speckled church (Couhounin’s call!) told
the inquiring kidder, by Jehova, it was twelve of em sidereal and tankard time,
adding, buttall, as he bended deeply with smoked sardinish breath to give more
pondus to the copperstick he presented, (though this seems in some cumfusium
with the chap- 36 stuck ginger which, as being of sours, acids, salts, sweets
and bitters compompounded, we know him to have used as chawchaw for bone,
muscle, blood, fl esh and vimvital,) that whereas the hakusay accusation
againstm had been made, what was known in high quarters as was stood stated in
Morganspost, by a creature in youman form who was quite beneath parr and
several degrees lower than yore triplehydrad snake. In greater support of his
word (it, quaint anticipation of a famous phrase, has been reconstricted out of
oral style into the verbal for all time with ritual rhythmics, in quiritary
quietude, and toosammenstucked from successive accounts by Noah Webster in the
redaction known as the Sayings Attributive of H. C. Earwicker, prize on
schillings, postlots free), the fl axen Gygas tapped his chronometrum drumdrum
and, now standing full erect, above the ambijacent fl oodplain, scene of its
happening, with one Berlin gauntlet chopstuck in the hough of his ellboge (by
ancientest signlore his gesture meaning: E !) pointed at an angle of thirtytwo
degrees towards his duc de Fer’s overgrown milestone as fellow to his gage and
after a rendypresent pause averred with solemn emotion’s fi re: Shsh shake,
co-comeraid! Me only, them fi ve ones, he is equal combat. I have won straight.
Hence my nonation wide hotel and creamery establishments which for the honours
of our mewmew mutual daughters, credit me, I am woowoo willing to take my
stand, sir, upon the monument, that sign of our ruru redemption, any hygienic
day to this hour and to make my hoath to my sinnfi nners, even if I get life
for it, upon the Open Bible and before the Great Taskmaster’s (I lift my hat!)
and in the presence of the Deity Itself andwell of Bishop and Mrs Michan of
High Church of England as of all such of said my immediate withdwellers and of
every living sohole in every corner wheresoever of this globe in general which
useth of my British to my backbone tongue and commutative justice that there is
not one tittle of truth, allow me to tell you, in that purest of fi bfi b
fabrications. Gaping Gill, swift to mate errthors, stern to checkself,
(diagnosing through eustacetube that it was to make with a markedly 37
postpuberal hypertituitary type of Heidelberg mannleich cavern ethics) lufted
his slopingforward, bad Sweatagore good murrough and dublnotch on to it as he
was greedly obliged, and like a sensible ham, with infi nite tact in the
delicate situation seen the touchy nature of its perilous theme, thanked um for
guilders received and time of day (not a little token abock all the same that
that was owl the God’s clock it was) and, upon humble duty to greet his
Tyskminister and he shall gildthegap Gaper and thee his a mouldy voids, went
about his business, whoever it was, saluting corpses, as a metter of corse (one
could hound him out had one hart to for the monticules of scalp and dandruff
droppings blaze his trail) accompanied by his trusty snorler and his permanent
refl ection, verbigracious; I have met with you, bird, too late, or if not, too
worm and early: and with tag for ildiot repeated in his secondmouth language as
many of the bigtimer’s verbaten words which he could balbly call to memory that
same kveldeve, ere the hour of the twattering of bards in the twitterlitter between
Druidia and the Deepsleep Sea, when suppertide and souvenir to Charlatan Mall
jointly kem gently and along the quiet darkenings of Grand and Royal, ff , fl
itmansfl uh, and, kk, ’t crept i’ hedge whenas to many a softongue’s pawkytalk
mude unswer u sufter poghyogh, Arvanda always aquiassent, while, studying
castelles in the blowne and studding cowshots over the noran, he spat in
careful convertedness a musaic dispensation about his hearthstone, if you
please, (Irish saliva, mawshe dho hole, but would a respectable prominently
connected fellow of Iro-European ascendances with welldressed ideas who knew
the correct thing such as Mr Shallwesigh or Mr Shallwelaugh expectorate after
such a callous fashion, no thank yous! when he had his belcher spuckertuck in
his pucket, pthuck?) musefed with his thockits after having supped of the dish
sot and pottage which he snobbishly dabbed Peach Bombay (it is rawly only
Lukanpukan pilzenpie which she knows which senaff ed and pibered him), a
supreme of excelling peas, balled under minnshogue’s milk into whitemalt
winesour, a proviant the littlebilker hoarsely relished, chaff it, in the
snevel season, being as fain o’t as your rat wi’fennel; and on this celebrating
38 occasion of the happy escape, for a crowning of pot valiance, this regional
platter, benjamin of bouillis, with a spolish olive to middlepoint its zaynith,
was marrying itself (porkograso!) erebusqued very deluxiously with a bottle of
Phenice-Bruerie ’98, followed for second nuptials by a Piessporter, Grand Cur,
of both of which cherished tablelights (though humble the bounquet ’tis a
leaman’s farewell) he obdurately sniff ed the cobwebcrusted corks. Our cad’s
bit of strife (knee Bareniece Maxwelton) with a quick ear for spittoons (as the
aftertale hath it) glaned up as usual with dumbestic husbandry (no persicks and
armelians for thee, Pomeranzia!) but, slipping the clav in her claw, broke of
the matter among a hundred and eleven others in her usual curtsey (how faint
these fi rst vhespers womanly are, a secret pispigliando, amad the lavurdy den
of their manfolker!) the next night nudge one as was Hegesippus over a hup a ’
chee, her eys dry and small and speech thicklish because he appeared a funny
colour like he couldn’t stood they old hens no longer, to her particular
reverend, the director, whom she had been meaning in her mind primarily to
speak with (hosch, intra! jist a timblespoon!) trusting, between cuppled lips
and annie lawrie promises (mighshe never have Esnekerry pudden come Hunanov for
her pecklapitschens!) that the gossiple so delivered in his epistolear, buried
teatoastally in their Irish stew would go no further than his jesuit’s cloth,
yet (in vinars venitas! volatiles valetotum!) it was this overspoiled priest Mr
Browne, disguised as a vincentian, who, when seized of the facts, was
overheard, in his secondary personality as a Nolan and underreared, poul soul,
by accident — if, that is, the incident it was an accident for here the ruah of
Ecclectiastes of Hippo outpuff s the writress of Havvah-ban-Annah — to
pianissime a slightly varied version of Crookedribs confi dentials, (what Mère
Aloyse said but for Jesuphine’s sake!) hands between hahands, in fealty sworn
(my bravor best! my fraur!) and, to the strains of Th e Secret of Her Birth,
hushly pierce the rubiend aurellum of one Philly Th urnston, a layteacher of
rural science and orthophonethics of a nearstout fi gure and about the middle
39 of his forties during a priestly fl utter for safe and sane bets at the
hippic runfi elds of breezy Baldoyle on a date (W. W. goes through the cald)
easily capable of rememberance by all pickersup of events national and Dublin
details, the doubles of Perkin and Paullock, peer and prole, when the classic
Encourage Hackney Plate was captured by two noses in a stablecloth fi nish, ek
and nek, some and none, evelo nevelo, from the cream colt Bold Boy Cromwell
after a clever getaway by Captain Chaplain Blount’s roe hinny Saint Dalough,
Drummer Coxon, nondepict third, at breakneck odds, thanks to you great little,
bonny little, portey little, Winny Widger! you’re all their nappies! who in his
neverrip mud and purpular cap was surely leagues unlike any other phantomweight
that ever toppitt our timber maggies. ’Twas two pisononse Timcoves (the wetter
is pest, the renns are overt and come and the voax of the turfur is hurled on
our lande) of the name of Treacle Tom as was just out of pop following the
theft of a leg of Kehoe, Donnelly and Packenham’s Finnish pork and his own
blood and milk brother Frisky Shorty, (he was, to be exquisitely punctilious
about them, both shorty and frisky) a tipster, come off the hulks, both of them
awful poor, what was out on the bumaround for an oofbird game for a jimmy
o’goblin or a small thick un as chanced, while the Seaforths was making the
colleenbawl, to ear the passon in the motor clobber make use of his law
language (Edzo, Edzo on), touchin the case of Mr Adams what was in all the
sundays about it which he was rubbing noses with and having a gurgle off his
own along of the butty bloke in the specs. Th is Treacle Tom to whom reference
has been made had been absent from his usual wild and woolly haunts in the land
of counties capalleens for some time previous to that (he was, in fact, in the
habit of frequenting common lodginghouses where he slept in a nude state,
hailfellow with meth, in strange men’s cots) but on racenight, blotto after
divers tots of hell fi re, red biddy, bull dog, blue ruin and creeping jenny,
Eglandine’s choicest herbage, supplied by the Duck and Doggies, the Galopping
Primrose, Brigid Brewster’s, the Cock, the Postboy’s Horn, 40 the Little Old
Man’s and All Swell Th at Aimswell, the Cup and the Stirrup, he sought his
wellwarmed leababobed in a housingroom Abide With Oneanother at Block W.W.,
(why didn’t he back it?) Pump Court, Th e Liberties, and, what with moltapuke
on voltapuke, resnored alcoh alcoho alcoherently to the burden of I come, my
horse delayed, nom num, the substance of the tale of the evangelical bussybozzy
and the rusinurbean (the ‘girls’ he would keep calling them for the collarette
and skirt, the sunbonnet and carnation) in parts (it seemed he was before the
eyots of martas or otherwales the thirds of fossilyears, he having beham with
katya when lavinias had her mens lease to sea in a psumpship doodly show
whereat he was looking for fi ght niggers with whilde roarses) oft in the
chilly night (the metagonistic! the epickthalamorous!) during uneasy slumber in
their hearings of a small and stonybroke cashdraper’s executive, Peter Cloran
(discharged), O’Mara, an exprivate secretary of no fi xed abode (locally known
as Mildew Lisa), who had passed several nights, funnish enough, in a doorway
under the blankets of homelessness on the bunk of iceland, pillowed upon the
stone of destiny colder than man’s knee or woman’s breast, and Hosty, (no
slouch of a name), an illstarred beachbusker, who, sans rootie and sans
scrapie, suspicioning as how he was setting on a twoodstool on the verge of
selfabyss, most starved, with melancholia over everything in general, (night
birman, you served him with natigal’s nano!) had been towhead tossing on his
shakedown, devising ways and manners of means, of what he loved to ifi
dalicence somehow or other in the nation getting a hold of some chap’s
parabellum in the hope of taking a wing sociable and lighting upon a sidewheel
dive somewhere off the Dullkey Downlairy and Bleakrooky tramaline where he
could throw true and go and blow the sibicidal napper off himself for two bits
to boldywell baltitude in the peace and quitybus of a one sure shot bottle, he
after having being trying all he knew with the lady’s help of Madam Gristle for
upwards of eighteen calanders to get out of Sir Patrick Dun’s, through Sir
Humphrey Jervis’s and into the Saint Kevin’s bed in the Adelaide’s hosspittles
(from 41 these incurable welleslays among those uncarable wellasdays through
Sant Iago by his cocklehat, good Lazar, deliver us!) without after having been
able to jerrywangle it anysides. Lisa O’Deavis and Roche Mongan (who had so
much incommon, epipsychidically; if the phrase be permitted hostis et odor
insuper petroperfractus) as an understood thing slept their sleep of the
swimborne in the one sweet undulant mother of tumblerbunks with Hosty just how
the shavers in the shaw the yokels in the yoats or, well, the wasters in the
wilde, and the bustling tweenydawn-of-all-works (meed of anthems here we pant!)
had not been many jiffi es furbishing potlids, doorbrasses, scholars’
applecheeks and linkboy’s metals when, ashhopperminded like no fella he go make
bakenbeggfuss longa white man, the rejuvenated busker (for after a goodnight’s
rave and rumble and a shinkhams topmorning with his coexes he was not the same
man) and his broadawake bedroom suite (our boys, as our Byron called them) were
up and ashuffl e from the hogshome they lovenaned Th e Barrel, cross Ebblinn’s
chilled hamlet (thrie routes and restings on their then superfi cies curiously
correspondant with those linea and puncta where our tubenny habenny metro
maniplumbs below the oberfl ake underrails and stations at this time of riding)
to the thrummings of a crewth fi ddle which, cremoaning and cronauning, levey
grevey, witty and wevey, appy, leppy and playable, caressed the ears of the
subjects of King Saint Finnerty the Festive who, in brick homes of their own
and in their fl avory fraiseberry beds, heeding hardly cry of honeyman, soed
lavender or foyneboyne salmon alive, with their priggish mouths all open for
the larger appraisiation of this longawaited Messiagh of roaratorios, were only
halfpast atsweeeep and after a brisk pause at a pawnbroking establishment for
the prothetic purpose of redeeming the songster’s truly admirable false teeth
and a prolonged visit to a house of call at Cujas Place, fi zz, the Old Sots’
Hole in the parish of Saint Cecily within the liberty of Ceolmore not a
thousand or one national leagues, that was, by Griffi th’s valuation, from the
site of the statue of Primewer Glasstone setting a match to the march of a
maker (last of the stewards peut-être), where, the tale rambles 42 along, the
trio of whackfolthediddlers was joined by a further — intentions — apply —
tomorrow casual and a decent sort of the hadbeen variety who had just been
touching the weekly insult, phewit, and all fi gblabbers (who saith of noun?)
had stimulants in the shape of gee and gees stood by the damn decent sort after
which stag luncheon and a few ones more just to celebrate yesterday, fl ushed
with their fi restuff fostered friendship, the rascals came out of the licensed
premises, (Browne’s fi rst, the small p.s. ex-exexecutive capahand in their sad
rear like a lady’s postscript: I want money. Pleasend), wiping their
laughleaking lipes on their sleeves, how the bouckaleens shout their roscan
generally (seinn fi on, seinn fi on’s araun.) and the rhymers’ world was with
reason the richer for a wouldbe ballad, to the balledder of which the world of
cumannity singing owes a tribute for having placed on the planet’s melomap his
lay of the vilest bogeyer but most attractionable avatar the world has ever had
to explain for. Th is, more krectly lubeen or fellow—me—lieder was fi rst
poured forth where Riau Liviau riots and col de Houdo humps, under the shadow
of the monument of the shouldhavebeen legislator (Eleutheriodendron! Spare,
woodmann, spare!) to an overfl ow meeting of all the nations in Lenster fullyfi
lling the visional area and, as a singleminded supercrowd, easily
representative, what with masks, whet with faces, of all sections and cross
sections (wineshop and cocoahouse poured out to brim up the broaching) of our
liff eyside people (to omit to mention of the mainland minority and such as had
wayfared via Watling, Ernin, Icknild and Stane, in chief a halted cockney car
with its quotal of Hardmuth’s hacks, a northern tory, a southern whig, an
eastanglian chronicler and a landwester guardian) ranging from slips of young
dublinos from Cutpurse Row having nothing better to do than walk about with
their hands in their kneepants, sucking airwhackers, weedulicet, jumbobricks,
side by side with truant offi cers, three woollen balls and poplin in search of
a croust of pawn to busy professional gentlemen, a brace of palesmen with
dundrearies, nooning toward Daly’s, fresh from snipehitting and mallardmissing
on Rutland heath, exchanging cold sneers, mass- 43 going ladies from Hume
Street in their chairs, the bearers baited, some wandering hamalags out of the
adjacent cloverfi elds of Mosse’s Gardens, an oblate fater from Skinner’s
Alley, bricklayers, a fl eming, in tabinet fumant, with spouse and dog, an aged
hammersmith who had some chisellers by the hand, a bout of cudgel players, not
a few sheep with the braxy, two bluecoat scholars, four broke gents out of
Simpson’s on the Rocks, a portly and a pert still tassing Turkey Coff ee and
orange shrub in tickeyes door, Peter Pim and Paul Fry and then Elliot and, O,
Atkinson, suff ering hell’s delights from the blains of their annuitant’s
acorns not forgetting a deuce of dianas ridy for the hunt, a particularist
prebendary pondering on the roman easter, the tonsure question and greek
uniates, plunk em, a lace lappet head or two or three or four from a window,
and so on down to a few good old souls, who, as they were juiced after taking
their pledge over at the unkle’s place, were evidently under the spell of
liquor, from the wake of Tarry the Tailor a fair girl, a jolly postboy thinking
off three fl agons and one, a plumodrole, a half sir from the weaver’s
almshouse who clings and clings and chatchatchat clings to her, a wholedam’s
cloudhued pittycoat, as child, as curiolater, as Caoch O’Leary. Th e wararrow
went round, so it did, (a nation wants a gaze) and the ballad, in the felibrine
trancoped metre aff ectioned by Taiocebo in his Casudas de Poulichinello
Artahut, stumpstampaded on to a slip of blancovide and headed by an excessively
rough and red woodcut, privately printed at the rimepress of Delville, soon fl
uttered its secret on white highway and brown byway to the rose of the winds
and the blew of the gaels, from archway to lattice and from black hand to pink
ear, village crying to village, through the fi ve pussyfours green of the
united states of Scotia Picta — and he who denies it, may his hairs be rubbed
in dirt! To the added strains (so peacifold) of his majesty the fl oote, that
onecrooned king of inscrewments, Piggots’s purest, ciello alsoliuto, which Mr
Delaney (Mr Delacey?), horn, anticipating a perfect downpour of plaudits among
the rapsods, piped out of his decentsoort hat, looking still more like his
purseyful namesake as men of Gaul noted, but before of to sputabout, the 44
snowycrested curl amoist the leader’s wild and moulting hair, ‘Ductor’
Hitchcock hoisted his fezzy fuzz at bludgeon’s height signum to his companions
of the chalice for the Loud Fellow, boys’ and silentium in curia! (our maypole
once more where he rose of old) and the canto was chantied there chorussed and
christened where by the old tollgate, Saint Annona’s Street and Church. And
aroud the lawn the rann it rann and this is the rann that Hosty made. Spoken.
Boyles and Cahills, Skerretts and Pritchards, viersefi ed and piersifi ed may
the treeth we tale of live in stoney. Here line the refrains of. Some vote him
Vike, some mote him Mike, some dub him Llyn and Phin while others hail him Lug
Bug Dan Lop, Lex, Lax, Gunne or Guinn. Some apt him Arth, some bapt him Barth,
Coll, Noll, Soll, Will, Weel, Wall but I parse him Persse O’Reilly else he’s
called no name at all. Together. Arrah, leave it to Hosty, frosty Hosty, leave
it to Hosty for he’s the mann to rhyme the rann, the rann, the rann, the king
of all ranns. Have you here? (Some ha) Have we where? (Some hant) Have you
hered? (Others do) Have we whered (Others dont) It’s cumming, it’s brumming! Th
e clip, the clop! (All cla) Glass crash. Th e
(klikkaklakkaklaskaklopatzklatschabattacreppycrottygraddaghsemmihsammihnouithappluddyappladdypkonpkot!)
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2 comentarios:
Fernando Cassamar
No soy San Martín de Porres para poder hablar con un pitbull o con una rata... habría que ser un santo para poder hacerlo. Antes de matar a la rata o que el perro me muerda, prefiero que esos animales sigan gruñendo y babeando...
Christian Franco Rodriguez
Fernando Cassamar Yo siempre he visto a la Santa Rosita que hay en ti solo déjala florecer
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fb0bKIV1_Ho
En un día del hombre están los días del tiempo
Desde aquel inconcebible día inicial del tiempo
En que un terrible Dios prefijo los días y las agonías, hasta aquel otro en el que el ubicuo río del tiempo terrenal torne a su fuente, que es lo eterno, y se apague en el presente, el futuro, el ayer, lo que ahora es mio. Entre el alba y la noche esta la historia universal:
Desde la noche veo a mis pies los caminos del hebreo , Cartago aniquilada, infierno y Gloria. Dame señor coraje y alegría para escalar la cumbre de este día.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ThRdqQTDovE
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