J. Aloisio Pruforker, a publican in Dundrum, living a simple rambling life in the only way he knows. If he has an opinion on anything, you are entitled to it, a story to share you are bound to hear it. An everyman with the gift of gab unmatched.
Now it was a made before method of raison he had that so allowed him this modicum of commodious turpitude to partake of Mormon's tea which disenchanted the weavers and woevers of the many troves but only now to come alone and bequeathed to none is his lot and loot and a freight worse than debt. Galileo, Galileo, stone me Galileo, he cried, tune the heated breath to the interlocutor who is sin fact the executioner and dance away and toward the groundswell of fusion mustard gasses we send up ragged and torn, a radical decentering of our cultural sphere. To what do I speak! Alas, poor Yorick, I knew thee well, tho ye be unwell to death's chamber maid. A whore, a whore, my kingdom for a whore. Aye, so it is. Another poor beggarman brought down by the hairs that bind. 'Tis the pull beyond a twenty stallion team thæse seeming simple curlews expound upon the man, amen, who so spies them as his landing. And as he rode he bethought these thingagibbies and more or less afore to raison the hussies from plunder.
Pruforker laments: It's a stinking world because there's no law and order anymore! It's a stinking world because it lets the young get on to the old. Oh, it's no world for an old man any longer. What sort of a world is it at all? Mun on the moon, and mun spinning around the earth, and there's not no attention paid to earthly law and order no more. Mekes me right puggled. If yournae heelpin the wolde o’mun gie's a break ya toaty heid squaddie teke yer slaggy poofy self n sookit. Teke the paracetamol and dinnae stop.
The princess of correction shall be notified of your disturbance.
Sorlick stepped back from the mirror with his raw wet razor in hand, ogled his long hard face, scratched his goolies, and saw a face like his own but ugly, knew he was swinging for hanging. This brought to mind his poor sweet sister Aima who so long ago had skittered faer and away and god knows what’s come of her. Long Mac Emonis. But no idea he had as to his come arounds. Let it lie and die proper and true. Sun’s a bye bye on this dark day.
Mebbe time to shore up for the snickliing winter crawling. And then….and then…
Nothing atall, surely. Not a thing shall pass this gate without a lay bye, so it is decreed. Slow the cock, feed the chickens. Nota fruit stand in the wide and swingbutt world can save your sorry behind. Chickens everywhere.
Life in the iron mills I see yet another godawfulcloudy day the air stifles me, thick, clammy, insuprocktuent foul. All is smoke! I see it roll smoke on the wharves, the platings, the moorswept tinders, smoke on the dingy boats, smoke on the yellow river, going brown in buckets. Smoke everywhere! Smoke clinging coating, schticking, greazy on the house front I see the dull grooly faces of the passersby. With drunken faces, full of unawakened power asking nothing of this world breaking always searing coughing choking yet their lives ask it; their deaths screech it. Long have I hoped! Long have I desired! That others would see this perfume tinted dawn so fair with promise, poisse, pimentos, Cuchulainn hope to come.