This a sad cage of
a book full of words
but little meaning
It rings hollow when
tapped for sense.
Whilst vacant, empty,
and pop-eyed on one page,
It speaks gibberish
and loud nonsense on the next,
Its lungs are noisy when it is silent.
It is silent when
it huffs and puffs to make the most noise.
Perhaps there
should be patience and pathos
Reserved for this congenital
idiot,
Drooling, sucking his
finger,
Digesting his thoughts,
Scratching his head
and his belly,
Looking for fleas
between the pages of his legs.
But such sympathy and
patience is wasted here.
Or perhaps there should
be caution
And secret admiration for the idiot-book
That is licensed to
speak the truth through humour.
A fool can usefully
puncture conceit
But that admiration
is wasted here.
|
This book has neither
the virtue of irony
Nor deserves the sympathy reserved for the truly mad.
Between loud noise
and vacant silence there is nothing
substantial.
How
do you read such a book?
Perhaps you do not or you cannot.
Perhaps at best - it can be re-used, re-written.
Perhaps we should turn our back on it.
We
couldfind space between its major crease offlatulent
arrogance
for another book.
We should have it returned for another try
Lest it be remaindered and lost
On some forgotten low shelf
Kept
for waste paper in the privy. |