Unto This Next

Igbert Lozenge, he whose existence is hard to swallow, he of Cheshire cat grimace and Ruritanian attire, he, Igbert, being of sound mind, even if it is barely audible, he, who knows not no reason why not nor wherefore none might say no, he, the said Igbert Lozenge, whose existence is hard to swallow, he who doth on this day celebrate the Feast of the Petrified Fatzo, thrice appointed Lard-Slatherer General to the Inflatulata of Cadiz, who, upon this his feast day doth in the sure and certain knowledge that he might have seen him here and there at some point in the past, he, the Petrified Fatzo, he doth bestow honour upon Igbert Lozenge, he who existence is hard to swallow, he who in return doth celebrate the feast day of the aforementioned Petrified Fatzo, himself honouring the vague notion that he might perhaps be able to recollect bumping into Igbert Lozenge at a countrie fayre once upon a time, perhaps when he was slathering lard for his mistress at a demonstation of her awesome lard eating prowess. Amen.

Comments

[Edward Williams]

For sheer incantation, tantalizing but nicely ineffectual obscurity of references, real and fictional, this equals, or beats, any slice out of Ezra Pound's "Cantos". A reader is only advised to wipe the bit of drool off his chin, before going on to the next slather. (And the thing about this kind of stuff, is we all know there is more where it came from.)

[stephenesque]

Indeed, there is always more where it came from: The vast lard oceans off the rocky coast of Vocabulary, where Ezra Pound, Kraken-like, lurks within his underwater cavern.