The final clock

As this sorry book draws to a close
Let us pause awhile and reflect
What is the truth — who knows?
At least it should get some respect.

There's a lot of mad women about
They write a whole lot of words
But of one thing there can be no doubt
Their theories are for the birds.

Men are frequently insecure
It can make them strange and eccentric
Of meaning profoundly unsure
Though their discourse is phallogocentric.

As the laughter fades to cheese
Half a book can seem like years
Here's a list of cast and crew
Boil them up into a stew.

The morning didn't start, the noon was noonless
And after it got dark, the night was moonless
The sundial needed winding, the final clock
Was slain; Time burbled like a jabberwock.

That is illogical, Captain, and so are the mome raths.

Death of the Authors

It seems there's far too little saneness
In this sad old book we've writ,
What the readers want is humour,
All they ever get is wit.
The public are depressed
But there's a way
We can make them happy-smiley —
Kill off the authors today.
Yes it's Death of the Authors today
Done out like a game of Cluedo
Which of these three writers will go first
In our game of textual judo?
Death of the Authors today
Club them down with a negative space
So that of this murder's origin
There's no trace.

@£"";$zz --> Error at line 16 ¡¡¡*

Stop Press... Author found dead in Barthes in Library Stop
Long Live the Text Beginnigan

The Ed's a duck
And the author's
Always already
Deady.

Epitaphs and gribbles

"To be or not to be? Is it a question?" said Prof. H. I. Storicist.

"Good lord! Dead men do soliloquize!" And, then a more worrying thought. "Live men don't — unless I'm an actor. All the world's a stage! I wish I could think of something that wasn't a quotation."

"You would have just thought you did, if you had thought of it, but you didn't — anyway, it doesn't matter!" said the Rabbi, "What a very odd suicide note — didn't know the old buffer could write anything that interesting. Probably not his fault. Swans sing before they die — Oh death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling... Perhaps it has something to do with the problematics of the epitaph."

And to the Professor's silent horror, she started to make notes.

A limerick rhyming in "wibble"
Is really a bit of a fiddle
Well that didn't rhyme
But I'll mention in time
A woodlouse-like thing called a "gribble"! (Honest.)

If... this is Thursday, it must be Budapest.
        [Found poem: Michael Berk] surely {tick}Dorothy

All writing is suicidal

The Contingent Closure

Murderer: Prof. H. I. Storicist

Weapon: The book

"Motive": To implicate the Rabbi, &c, and validate the form of the book. A fitting end.

Verdict: suicide.

Quotation. "All writing is suicidal." Maud Ellmann

"? Suicidal for whom ?"

"¿Suicidia a quién?"

Either.

New Cluedo

I think that's quite enough dialectical dialogue.

I don't, replied Arthur, but changing his mind, he gunned down his interlocutor in cold blood — or was it the bedroom? With the ice pick.

{"NEW CLUEDO" board, featuring the DRAWING ROOM (with a stick man labelled "picture"), the LIBRARY, the KITCHEN, the TOILET, the BATH, and the SHOWER}

Who killed Prof. H. I. Storicist, who was found dead in the bath (which had subsequently (if that isn't too diachronous) been moved to the library)?

Was it Rabbi de Konstruktionist, the well known female Jewish intellectual, with the ice-axe? Or was she too busy having a fling with Mrs Fem Inists, the Irish wolfhound (sorry, surrealist)?

Alternatively it could have been Liz Double-barrel, with the shotgun! Another suspect is Sajmĉjo Esperanto with the PIV. One thing's for sure — it wasn't Geoffrey How — he doesn't exist; nor was it any other Geoffrey {the Y has a flourish} © ?

Stereophonic nothing

"My hovel is a real mildew milieu [mill-you? Ed!#@]," said the froggly whatsit. Sir Isaac was both the same [as half an Ed, E] — No! No! 9! [nõ]! as half his length. My shark's got no ears — How does he smell? — He doesn't / She doesn't. What? Sarajevo's on the olds again; bread-bomb, barnacle-bucket, bombastic-bastardly Muttley. I say, I speak, I utter, why is a poodle like a poodle? Neither has a brain, but bother of them are completely oth. [Er..., Ed.]

We interrupt this broadcast to bring you NOTHING.

Stereophonic NOTHING.

Wellington, to boot

One man's burp is the same man's burp.

"You have met your Wellington, this time, Mr Newt!" said Arthur. (Who?)

"And you have met your Napoleon, to boot" said Sir Isaac (what?).

No — not Watts, who?

Either Arthur or Wellington or what's-his-name.

But I just said it wasn't.

So? You could be lying.

That doesn't count!

Oh really, and up to how much?

I don't know, and let's not bring how into it!

Sir Geoffrey?

No, Sir Isaac.

But there isn't anyone called Sir Isaac Howe.

How do you know?

But I don't! If I knew someone called Sir Isaac Howe, they would exist.

[Triumphant] Ideal-ist! Ideal-ist!! You've lost, and, what's more [than whom? (Ed.)] — you don't exist!

Who says?

What's the difference?

Neither of them are both the same.