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.