Poor Bastard Welshman

Nora Barnacle no Blazes Boylan’s gobspit, Guinness-brown between her raw naked legs. Finnegan crowning, perhaps, birth-sculled head smarting from a Scorpion’s sting to the nethermostmouth, a pleasing encounter nonetheless, Nora my dear, dearest Nora Barnacle. Head-thruster, Aloysius, you smarting smart man. That, this was composed on a torn shred of newspaper culled from a wire-cage display in the lobby of a medical tower before my needle-in the eye follow-up. Doctor Macdonald has no farm to speak of. Johannesburg’s runaways have no interest in agrarian things. Waif wafer-thin, the ghostbody of Christ, sumptuousness best enjoyed on the sliver of one’s tongue. Christ wine, deep, arterial scorpions and licescales slaking a persistent thirst, thirsty for more of this sumptuousness, sweet, treacle sweetness, more. I await God’s smiting-hand, tremulous. Little devils dancing like Cossacks all. A bitterness best savored on the Buddenbrooks of one’s tongue-meat. Brings to mind, as it always does, poor besotted Dylan’s liver, fresh meat excised for the gourmand’s table de haut; salty, salt aftertaste besmirching the gorehole as it does. Poor bastard Welshman bastard. Better off, you’d be, with Finnegan’s head torn to shreds on the lemony-scented rocks of the Liffey. Snotgreensea dogsbodies, corpsegases, dancing like devilish Cossacks under a crazed jealous moon kicked to splinters.