“I heard one cry in the night, and I heard one laugh afterwards. If I cannot forget that, I shall not be able to sleep again.”
from Count Magnus, by M.R. James Ghost Stories of an Antiquary (1904)
What do you read, my lord?
Words, words, words.
What is the matter, my lord?
I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.
Slanders, sir: for the satirical rogue says here
that old men have grey beards, that their faces are
wrinkled, their eyes purging thick amber and
plum-tree gum and that they have a plentiful lack of
wit, together with most weak hams: all which, sir,
though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet
I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down, for
yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if like a crab
you could go backward.
[Aside] Though this be madness, yet there is method
From Hamlet Act II Scene 2.
Impartial publishes publications and important forests.
The stone is rising.
It’s very ocean sings irony laser waltzes.
To someone single, I was surprised to manage this.
Recycling sleep destroys the first sleep on the web.
Before any presentation I have a beer from the tolerance point.
I visited with a mysterious page occupation!
It’s a great time.
NOTE: The Dadaist Poem began as a comment in Spam Queue – I put it through translation software & word poetry scramble. This is part of it, the rest I will save for another Dada Poem Post.