Hungarian Union of Jurisprudent Negotiators

January 2008: This month’s case: Vafthrudnir vs Odin

Consider said depositions:

Then for meat they shall feed on morning dew.

So. Soon’s we woke, we goes down to the water, where our brother lies like a king. Like a king crab on a barbeque. Flames from the burning boat tickle the fading stars. His frozen carcase was decked with no less bounty than he had brought with him at his birth. With a clean stroke the old man severed the hawsers. Had the old woman but known, she would have held her head in her hands as he was cast away.

As the snow is my pillow, I too could scarcely bear to watch, but the sparkling shadows on the water never left my eye till day closed in. That night I drunk a toast to ice crossed, a grinning wolf. As the moons tick my shadow, to dream with the warmth of a woman bolsters a man’s bed in this blowing season. I keep a weather eye out for my brother’s keeper, lest I too lie marooned on some unknown shore.

Like when we slept three nights on the rock. With double bagging. Shipwrecked girls discovering bouyancy.

He was born, they say, in St Petersburg, the night that the nightjars jarred, which they do most nights. After a less than memorable childhood, the grew up, then one day he simply floated away. Away in a manger, where dog eat dog eat doggy dog, to the land where humid lives are measured out by lots.

It’s all in the cards. There will be shady deals at the oddfellows reunion by a one-legged man with a government contract. The police will wing a gipsy in Newfoundland, a bohemian crying baby’s got root, of whom it is said in his heyday he skated to bubble land on the rigid river, slicing ever so succinctly through mouse-tracked drifts.

A cowboy with mushrooms in his jam will nod off in your attic.

Mom used to say that bad news always comes in threes. Dad used to say there’s three kinds of people: Those who can count, and those who can’t. And those whose beer is thicker than gold.

On the attainment of his majority said brother met a woman who’d been reared in the outskirts of Leyden, during the ascendency of our late beloved prelate. In the folds of his trousers, the smiling seamstress gleaned the flickerings of a waxing desire.

Froggie went acourting, but Jenny Crack Corn was found to be victimized by the blue tail fly, in consequece of which, said fry shall make restitution of such crack as Jemmy, in dangling participles, under no uncertain terms, lacks. The renaissance women so confirm, yawning.

This yawn was interpreted by sundry industrial revolutionaries, in their private works, as presaging an incomplete collapse of the seed futures, flax excepted; a conclusion heartily echoed by the troops of analysts struggling towards their Nobels.

Launch all zigs. My zig is now on route to Saskatoon for Saturday delivery. All your bits are belong to us. Resource starvation attack. Lion boasted he made Worm to say, “Chinese is not sheep.” Them days the sky was bigger than the city. Them days a smile was bigger than diamonds.

Our man from spam desired to check the lay of the land, and found she had a long leg, but still he made the pass. On the second wave, as sure as the salt sea feathers my vanes, a gentleman farmer burns in the shadows. With a dollop of St Johns wort you might beard the tongue in its own dent. Bring back my echo to me, to me.

Ab initio, she cut an hourglass figure. Time was on her side. Stay calm, be brave, wait for the sign. With a faint and mysterious smell. How else are we to account for the presence of the sizeable blacks? Your old lady sure looks good to me, feeding on algae and the landed gentry and such.

Which reminds me that I can barely remember when we were lemurs, much less marsupials, or heavens to murgatroid sinosoviets.

Szeckely said that Berg told him about a fellow whom Shostakovich said Berlioz called the Lizst of the harp. For many a year he was cloud chamber musician to the dowager queen of Prussia. Harking to the wolf tone, haggard as retsina, verbose as a vagina.

As my great-great-grandfather the witch doctor used to say — that’s my father’s mother’s mother’s father, who incidentally was second cousin to my mother’s father’s father’s mother, as has been established by recombinant analysis of the DNA in question — we got wails for the wind and a reefer for the rain.