Mr. & Mrs. J.J. Conley

In Praha in the village of Hlavni Mesto a boy bounces an Indian rubber ball with the flaps of his hands, his mother tallying the day’s recipes in a wee small ledger. ‘…you’re a dodgy cunt you are…’ said the boy to his mama ma. ‘…all that ledgering and not a pisspot to tosspot in…’. His mamma ma caught him under the chin with a left hook, his jawbone cricketing into the back of his head. ‘…that’ll teach you to cuss out your mamma ma…!. ‘…lousy fish…’ he said under his breath, ‘...to hell with you, you sad louse…!’ His mamma ma, getting ear and quip of her son’s whisper, said ‘…wee shit…!’ Surrounded by marigolds and cowbells, the sun coo-cooing, the sky bellowing, nory a wun, nary a wun atoll. The tricks in the tricking, fuck the lot of yea!

This is shear madness. Buffoonery! Hlavni Mesto cunts, what has became become of me, the auteur of this plissé (plis·sé)?

The shamble leg man wore a tinsmith’s smock plissé with taffeta frills. He wore it to Ships’ Day, not wanting to look unseemly or plus de cause. (The sky turned azure blue, a hackling of puffins crackling and whipping across the blue azure blue skycap). He wore his best culottes, a stiff white linen shirt, knee-socks and oxtail braid toe-sandals. Crouching like a beggar, his stiff linen shirt crackling, he intoned ‘Bráthair Pádraig, keep my soul from hell below’. Mr. and Mrs. J.J. Conley, who happened to happen by, scowling said ‘…jiminy All Mighty, what a quair fellow…’.