Banished forever

This was. Poem a. B. C. D. E. F. 2.
    Indented, and Boffo fell toppleg from his horse. Lancelot jumped down into the mire, but Arthur was too late (already) to od anytho' it was fairly bog.
    Whemp? Crump. Grungy — immensively express.
    "Splat," said Arthur to the crushed Boffo, who lay there oozingly at his feed. The entire infinity of the cosmic universal everything suddenly fell out of the window.
"Whoops,"
    said
        Pangram.

"What an awful nightmare," quoth Arthur, awaking the next morning, "everything was surreal." So saying, he removed the wombat from his head.

"Good evening," interrupted Professor Karswell.

"Good Lord, is it evening already?" replied Arthur.

"No, but I thought it sounded more sinister."

"I'm afraid you're all too late," shouted Wilhelm, breaking the door down, armed with a pointed stick. "In only five minutes you will be banished forever to Upper Sadberge, Clonmult and Goo.

Let us go then, I and me

Arthur looked around the room nervously. All around it was pink — the room, that is. Something made him uneasy.

"I've just thought of something," said Boffo the Poffo.

Arthur said:
Let us go then, I and me
As the evening sinks fatigued into the sea
Like someone who is really rather bored;
Let us go and then come back again
Muttering, a bit insane
Like one who is temporarily into Zen
(What of two — and who knows when?)
I shall therefore come back and follow me
(Where id was, there shall ego be)
Inquiring after number three
Our other personality.

He was the unbalanced one, you know
Who thought he was Michelangelo.

So Arthur went, and took Lancelot and Boffo with him.

Until thoroughly decomposed

TEXT (see p. 123)

Six eggs, half a kilo of elephants, and a tin of text. Stir well until indemnified. Serves 25, 36 on weekends, 5 in a leap year.

"This will not (therefore) have been a book." Already it is too late. Hurricane Ian MacCaskill is a found poem. There can be no guarantees, and they must be very small elephants. No two numbers are alike and I, too, have lost my umbrella. The mixture is ineluctably citational, yet beyond repetition. Never such elephants, such umbrellas again — they are blown inside out by the hurricane. Shantih Shantih Shantih. Dark dark dark.

Saloon. Saloon. Metacommentary? Fragile? "!" said the. Do not egg the rhubarb until thoroughly decomposed. "It means its own context without meaning itself." (Liz.) Riboflavin. Odd disjointed ballykettlings. Wash it until thoroughly decomposed. Marry the cabbage until utterly pop.

Salut, Salute! I am not Woking, not was meant to be. Is anything? No, but a pencil must be blue. Fin, again -- isn't everyone?

Bathyscope? "For the pong is the greatest of all good whiffs." And now, ladies and jellyyaks, the double Y! Please welcome your toast — Germy Boodle... He said:

So who is Old Khayyam, anyway?

The man who never blinks

This page has nothing written on it, except that it has.

How quintessentially paradoxical, yet appositely (nay strategically) self-enacting. [How perceptive.]

{Drawing of a stick person}
WANTED - the man who never blinks aka Bob Peck. Wanted in connection with
(a) never blinking
(b) never smiling
(c) annoying flashbacks
(d) inevitably investigating everything across which he comes, having all who come into contact with him being mysteriously killed
(e) being associated with every sinister plot against the western world
(f) always looking the same
(g) being from Yorkshire
(h) not being a deconstructionist* †
* optional extra if you happen to be a member of... the Hermeneutic Mafia™.
† In the light of (d) and (e), and your celebrated mental condition, are you sure? Or "sure"? And you are aware of the difference, aren't you?

différance ≈ sameness ["sameness"]
bucket ≠ bouquet
mabblepoop ≡ mabblepooglespip
(POLITICS = THE MOOB)

Front matters not

CONTENTS

Introduction ... iii
Preface ... ix
Foreword ... xii
Foreword to the Third Preface ... xvii
Forehead to Her Majesty ... xxi
Rubbish ... 1
Garbage ... 25
Trashy Nonsense ... 37
Aardvarkology (Surreal) ... 42
Gibbering Wrecks ... 59
Michael Aspel ... (passim)
Contents ... (this page)
Index ... (that page)
The End ... (The Beginning)

The Wordsworths (27p approx.)
by Timothy Gumboot (retiredq)

— Give it some wellie-o
A carnivalesque travesty of a d*c*nstr*ct*d discourse.

(that too, of course, but still completely)
"INSAME"

(Preambulatory into a brick wall)

In the Jahr of 1992 and the following Jahr (which, by most reputable accounts, was the Jahr of 1993), I was ensconced in a universe of university and simultaneously sharing a dwelling with two other members of the human species, who shall herein be coloured purple and green. We were all a bit mad then.

Then?

Pleasantly struck over the mindbrain by the notion of holding a preposterously lengthy and circuitously rambling written discussion, largely revolving around topics of stark gibbering nonsense (stark! bark!), we proceeded to spend a disturbing and peculiarly intermittent fraction of those Jahrs pouring forth our innermost haha into a couple of big papery things through the medium of cheap biro dribble.

Each person would respond to the ramblings of the previous, or from time to time shoot off on a twisting tangent of their own. Occasionally there were Other Contributors™, some of whom have since taken up recreational implosion, or simply gone mad.

The dwelling was on William Street, and the big papery things survived. Here they are, bit by eky bit. Eek! Run away!

Not 'arf.