Poleax and Broadsheet

I, the author, have lost control of this thing, this thing within a thing. It has taken on a death of its own, a mordant determination to make a fool of me, and in the process a fool of you, the reader. I am a petty demon, or so I’m led to believe, as far as this is true, and perhaps it is, the end will come willy-nilly and without a trammel or boxthorn; or, truth be known, like a Torstein bunter replete with washcloth and cittern-pail. This, you see, is the problem: the words come but the meanings remain hidden, semantic no-nonsense and blather, words knit and basted together like some rough-nose Fagan. I stand in abstentia ex Morales des rigorous, with neither an either or a nor, nor a more-so ad infinitum prelate esse glorious: an incontinence allegorica, a meatpacker’s poleax hilted to the broadsheet.

Morton Salk wore a sunbonnet with a cinch-string round his neck to prevent the wicker from flying and flailing and fraying and making a general nuisance. There is no Morton Salk (not that I’m aware of) other than in this characterlessness that pretends to be a story, a stoogeboard story. Let’s bend the truth a little and see what we come up with, downwards into a Kamikaze spiralstaircasespiral. Okay, forget it, let’s simply let things, things within things play themselves out and see where it, they them the other others take us. I am no longer responsible for this, this menace, so be forewarned, yes, be well forewarned. Morales des Morales in excelsior goriest, let the hew fall where they may, paymaster Elton E. J. Salamander at your cervix, pudendum e caliper bifurcation in-speculum imp ego et Al Jolson