Friday, July 22, 2016

Alethe diegemata

Deserted by the feeling of truth,
The unreliable narrator
Began to feel in need of a laugh

Instead, being unreliable
Not in the sense of untrustworthy
As to the details of his strange tale

But in the sense of not narrating
Anything at all when most he should
Have been regaling us with story,

Incidents, coincidence, and twists
To the inevitably abrupt
End that is the fiction of all plot.

Here's how he begins, ludicrously:
I'm glad you asked. I'm always relieved
To meet someone willing to hear me 

Out. Unfortunately, few as they are, 
Most of them are complete crackpots, not
Sensible people like you. They don't

Have the vocabulary. They lack 
The erudition and general 
Intelligence to keep up with me 

Even when they are more or less sane.
He continues a while in that vein
Until the reader realizes

He'll never introduce another
Character nor narrate another
Event. The reader must drown alone

In high seas of lines like rippling waves,
Interminably emerging, 
Foam spraying from mouths of broken lips

Never getting around to the end
Of anything, still pounding behind
The author's corpse lying washed ashore.

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