The Uncall

It started in the middle of the night with a cockroach. Then came the octave strains and the way it assailed my inner ear – the why of the yauncy and the darcy and the nilly rising melancholy of your murderous nightsea. The one that waves wherever you don’t. The one that foams when your sails finally belly. I’ve been on it once and I’ve been perfectly sundered. I woke up a trinity – three souls instead of one guile, or one spite meaning several and a litany. I prefer the former. I produce the litter and the letter for the lover or the nail. The eight of eleven and ought’s a stranze themes and it started losa wiaze. It’s very straunge indeed.

J.A.C. (Johns and Clergymen)

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