Well-past-its-sell-by-date logic

There was a young lass of Bridport
Who bought lots of books she ought
not. Therein lay no knowledge
Yet still she wouldn't acknowledge
Their contents were of no import.

I refer you firstly to the relation between poesis and noesis.

Secondly...

A young man constrained by his metaphysic
And well-past-its-sell-by-date logic
Found the undecidability
Of an Other rationality
Quite outside his faculties analytic.

That is quite awful. (not awe-ful.)

In a book made of more than just words
Lay some limericks (food for the birds!)
One was totally smothered
'Cos the other one othered
Though they scanned like a pair of old nerds.

There was an argument quite consequential
Of matters almost influential
But its process poetic
And form esoteric
Showed it to be self-referential. 19/20

I love existential quantifiers

"Mind the broken Glas! Mind the broken Glas — or is it groken blah!"

"You've never had it so good, yet the nays have it — {therefore} the nays have never had it so good."

There was once a most ridiculous sect
Who constantly idolized the text
It was their consistent perpetual joy
To link everything with Freud
So that at the heart of each matter lay sex.

There was a young man who thought noesis
Bore no relation to poesis
And as for the word
He thought it absurd
He may be in need of analysis.

{Universal quantifier} x (x reads Glas --> ¬ TRYING TO SHOW OFF KNOWLEDGE OF LOGIC SYMBOLS; BUT "NOY" SYMBOLISED BY ~ x is sane)

{Existential quantifier} y {(y is at Exeter College ^ y reads Glas) --> y's mental health suffers}

I {heart} Existential Quantifiers

Fore legs good

    "'Twas Aye!" yelled the Speaker until his tonsils fell out, "Aye — the Nay's have it (and the vote)."

    The nays, indeed, were dying of it like flies. "Neigh!" they said, and flew. The flies pigged like death. "Fore legs good, back legs bad." The pigs balanced then overbalanced, overdetermined, by a volley of nays. "Throw the burglar!" said the telephone, answering, as ever, itself. "Drawer, the aeronaut," corrected itself, ever, that is. Dial 666 for the problematics of translation — no fish, I don't want to die like a Ney.

    "What, is he dead, then?" prayed pathetically the holy how-alliteratively heart brass-handled door-nail dead Hopkins (Gerard Manley-ish, also deceased). Martial! Yes, he also. Farewell, the plumed troop?

    But remember that one man (sorry, person; sorry life-form; sorry (ad infinitum))'s FiSh is another etc's poisson...

The sentence-pede

    "'Twas I!" yelled the centipude, breathing sickly black venom into her own major intestinal bat, "I left it out in the raining pour!"

    "It's raining yaks and dogs," moaned Marvin rustily, "I've just put my foot in a poodle."

    "'Twas Eye!" yelled the centipodule, breathing sickly blue pustules of sick into his own minor un-armpit, "I poured warty water out of the raining pour."

    "Yes?" inquired Old Mouldy the Disgusting Warthog meaninglessly, pouring with rain himself, though never before lunch on Sundays (barmitzvahs an exception).

    "'Twas I!" yelled the sentence-pede, who was also Warden at Bretton Youth Hostel, "in t' forties and fifties we had real rainstorms — there was a Warden once, aye!"

    "Shut up you old loony," yelled the centipoff, who had had enough "had"s in one sentence; all became clear as muddy daylight, and the sentence-pede fell away into a surreal and non-existent Northern dimension of his own devises.

Made glorious somewhere TEXT

Richard III opened the book to find himself confronted by a TEXT TEXT TEXT applying the pillow firmly TEXT and a spoonful TEXT of custard. Apologies for TEXT the interruptions — the book has TEXT indeed caught a TEXT virus — not very TEXT surprising, really.

Now is the content of our disparate text made glorious somewhere by this proper name. Now is the context of our desperate name made glorious Shakespeare by this proper text. Now is the subtext of our aspirant glory made proper Shakespeare by this textual name?

"No, I would not be made, not mad sweet Heaven!"

Ambition pole-vaulted straight into the Other.

{Mirror writing} "Life, don't talk to me about Life!" it said.

The ice-cap reigns

"Where's the fishy?" inquired Karsill for the second thyme.

"Where's my growbag?" inquired Mr Stranger-Sort-Of-Potato, who didn't.

"Only me!" said Mr You-Don't-Want-To-Sniff-That, who couldn't possibly have.

The world ended for about the sixteenth time that week (which was weird for a Wednesday).

In one universe, it is always ending. The metaphysical has no guard rail, like a perilous escalator. The five has no three, being irreducible. This time it won't — promise!

"Whirled in that destructive fire / Which burns before the ice-cap reigns."

"But wouldn't it snow?" corrected Arthur.

"Be thankful you're not a poetic subject," Professor Carswell responded. "A pun like that and you might die of hypothermia."

Book virus

"Pizza pizza pozza, wear the barleymow" (Derridan)

"Mey the bingly bongly bananabrain goggggg" (Derk)

"Surrventro-uf t as

                            b

                                k

                                    l

                                    u

                                        m

{The letters pour out of the sentence, landing in a jumbled heap at the foot of the page}

That isn't supposed to happen, unless the book has a computer virus.