Devastating boing

"Some people have made the mistake of seeing Liz's work as a load of rubbish about railway timetables, but clever people like me who talk loudly in rhinoceroses see this as a deliberate ambiguity, a plea for understanding in a textualised ethos. The points are frozen, the word is dead. What is the difference? What indeed is the point? The point is frozen, the intention is late, lost and eaten by Paddington, the point is taken. If La Fontaine's Elque would spurn Tom Jones, the engine must be our head, the dining-car our oesophagus, the guardsvan our left lung, the cattle-truck our shins, the first-class stamp the piece of skin at the entrance to Atextual Oblivion, and the level-crossing an eclectic moose called Sajmĉjo. The clarity is devastating, but who is the ambiguity? Hello, it's meeeee! Where is the rambly gooey tree? Over there, in a box. Shunt is saying the 8.15 from Gillingham, when IN 'REALITY' he means the 8.13 from Gillingham. The train is 'the' same, only the time 'is' altered. Ecce homo, ergo sum. La Fontaine knew her sister, and knew her bloody intentionally. The point is broken, the text is mouldy, the words get up your nose. The illusion is complete. It is reality, the reality is intention, and the ambiguity is the only tooth truth. But is the truth, as Hitchcock observes, in the box? No, there isn't room, the ambiguity has put on WAIT! The point is pointed, the elk is elky, the beast stops at Swindon, the text stops at nothing, I'm having treatment, Derrida looks like Anaxagoras, the moose is moussy, the gibber is a gibbon, and Ezra Pound can get knotted."

< < BOING > >