Finnegans Wake Book 1 Chapter 5

  IN THE NAME of Annah the Allmaziful, (p104)

the Ever-living, 

the Bringer of Plurabilities, 

haloed be her eve, 

her sing-time sung, 

her rill be run, 

unhemmed as it is uneven!

Her untitled mama-festa 

memorialising the Most-highest 

has gone by many names at disjointed times. 

Thus we hear of, 

The Augusta Angust-issi-most for Old Sea-beastius’ Salvation, 

Rock-abill Booby in the Wave Trough, 

Here’s to the Relicts of All Decencies, 

Anna Stessa’s Rise to Notice, 

Knickle Down Duddy Gunne and Arishe Sir Cannon, 

My Golden One and My Selver Wedding, 

Amoury Treestam and Icy Siseule, 

Saith a Sawyer til a Strame, 

Ik dik dope-dope et tu mihi-mihi, 

Buy Birthplate for a Bite, 

Which of your Hesterdays Mean Ye to Morra? 

Hoe-begunne the Hebrewer Hit Waterman the Brayned, 

Arcs in His Ceiling Flee Chinx on the Flur, 

Rebus de Hibernicis, 

The Crazier Letters, 

Groans of a Britoness, 

Peter Peopler Picked a Plot to Pitch his Poppolin, 

An Apology for a Big 

.. (some such nonoun as Husband or husboat or hosebound 

..is probably understood 

 .. for we have also the pluther-plethoric 

My Hoons-bood Hans-baad’s a Journey to Porthergill gone 

.. and He Never Has the Hour), 

Ought We To Visit Him? 

For Ark see Zoo, 

Cleopater’s Nedlework Ficturing Aldborougham on the Sahara 

.. with the Coombing of the Cammmels and the Parlour-maids of Aegypt, 

Cock in the Pot for Father, 

Placeat Vestrae, 

A New Cure for an Old Clap, 

Where Portentos they’d Grow Gonder how I’d Wish I Woose a Geese; 

Gettle Nettie, 

Thrust him not, 

When the (p105) Myrtles of Venice Played to Bloccus’s Line, 

To Plenge Me High He Waives Chiltern on Friends, 

Oremunds Queue Visits Amen Mart, 

E’en Tho’ I Granny a-be He would Fain Me Cuddle, 

Twenty of Chambers, 

Weighty Ten Beds and a Wan Ceteroom, 

I Led the Life, 

Through the Boxer Coxer Rising in the House with the Golden Stairs, 

The Following Fork, 

He’s my O’Jerusalem and I’m his Po, 

The Best in the West, 

By the Stream of Zemzem under Zigzag Hill, 

The Man That Made His Mother in the Marlborry Train, 

Try Our Taal on a Taub, 

The Log of Anny to the Base All, 

Nopper Tipped a Nappi-wenk to his Noty-lytl Dantsi-girls, 

Prszss Orel Orel the King of Orlbrdsz, 

Intimier Minnelisp of an Extorreor Mono-lothe, 

Drink to Him, My Juckey, and Dhoult Bemine Thy Winnowing Sheet, 

I Ask You to Believe I was his Mistress, 

He Can Explain, 

From Victrolia Nuancee to Allbart Noahnsy, 

Da’s a Daisy so Guimea your Handsel too, 

What Barbaras Done to a Barrel Organ Before the Rank, 

Tank and Bonnbtail, 

Huskvy Admortal, 

What Jumbo made to Jalice and what Anisette to Him, 

Ophelia’s Culpreints, 

Hear Hubty Hublin, 

My Old Dansh, 

I am Older northe Rogues among Whisht I Slips 

.. and He Calls Me his Dual of Ayessha, 

Suppotes a Ventriliquorst Merries a Corpse, 

Lapps for Finns This Funny-coon’s Week, 

How the Buckling Shut at Rush in January, 

Look to the Lady, 

From the Rise of the Dudge Pupublick to the Fall of the Potstille, 

Of the Two Ways of Opening the Mouth, 

I have not Stopped Water Where It Should Flow 

.. and I Know the Twentynine Names of Attraente, 

The Tortor of Tory Island Traits Galasia like his Milchcow, 

From Abbeygate to Crowalley Through a Lift in the Lude, 

Smocks for Their Graces and Me Aunt for Them Clod-shoppers, 

How to Pull a Good Horuscoup even when Oldsire is Dead to the World, 

Inn the Gleam of Waherlow, 

Fathe He’s Sukceded to My Esperations, 

Thee Steps Forward, Two Stops Back, 

My Skin Appeals to Three Senses and My Curly Lips Demand Columb-kisses; 

Gage Street on a Crany’s Savings, 

Them Lads made a Trion of Battle-watschers and They Totties a Doeit of Deers, 

In My Lord’s Bed by One Whore Went Through It, 

Mum It is All Over, 

Cow-poy-ride by Twelve Acre Terriss in the Unique Estates of Amessican, 

He Gave me a Thou so I (p106) serve Him with Thee, 

Of all the Wide Torsos in all the Wild Glen, O’Donogh, 

White Donogh, 

He’s Hue to Me Cry, 

I’m the Stitch in his Baskside You’d be Nought Without Mom, 

To Keep the Huskies off the Hustings and Picture Pets from Lifting Shops, 

Norsker Torsker Find the Poddle, 

He Perssed Me Here with the Ardour of a Tonno-burkes, 

A Boob Was Weeping This Mower was Reaping, O’Loughlin, 

Up from the Pit of my Stomach I Swish you the White of the Mourning, 

Inglo-Andeen Medoleys from Tommany Moohr, 

The Great Polynesional Entertrainer Exhibits Ballantine Brautchers 

.. with the Link of Natures, 

The Mimic of Meg Neg end the Mackeys, 

Entered as the Lastest Pigtarial and My Pooridiocal at Stitchioner’s Hall, 

Siegfield Follies and or a Gentlehomme’s Faut Pas, 

See the First Book of Jealesies Pessim, 

The Suspended Sentence, 

A Pretty Brick Story for Childsize Heroes, 

As Lo Our Sleep, 

I Knew I’d Got it in Me so Thit settles That, 

Thonderbalt Captain Smeth and La Belle Sauvage Pocahonteuse, 

Way for Wet Week Welikin’s Douchka Marianne, 

The Last of the Fingallians, 

It Was Me Egged Him on to the Stork Exchange 

.. and Lent my Dutiful Face to His Customs, 

Chee Chee Cheels on their China Miction, 

Picked-me-up Peters, 

Lumpty-tum-tumpty had a Big Fall, Pim-pimp Pim-pimp, 

Measly Ventures of Two Lice and the Fall of Fruit, 

The Fokes Family Interior, 

If my Spread-eagles Wasn’t so Tight 

.. I’d Loosen my Cursits on that Bunch of Maggie-straps, 

Allo-losha Popo-fetts and Howke Cotchme Eye, 

Seen Aples and Thin Dyed, 

i big U to Beleaves from Love and Mother, 

Fine’s Fault was no Felon, 

Exat Delvin Renter Life, 

The Flash that Flies from Vuggy’s Eyes has Set Me Hair On Fire, 

His is the House that Malt Made, 

Divine Views from Back to the Front, 

Abe to Sare Stood Icyk Neuter till Brahm Taulked Him Common Sex, 

A Nibble at Eve Will That Bowal Relieve, 

Allfor Guineas, Sounds and Compliments Libidous, 

Seven Wives Awake Aweek, 

Airy Ann and Berber Blut, 

Amy Licks Porter While Huffy Chops Eads, 

Abbrace of Umbellas or a Tripple of Caines, 

Butt-butter-bust, 

From the Manor-lord Hoved to the Misses O’Mollies 

.. and from the Dames to their Sames, 

Many-festoons for the Colleagues on the Green, 

An Outstanding Back and an Excellent Half-centre if Called on, 

As Tree is Quick and Stone (p107) is White So is My Washing Done by Night, 

First and Last Only True Account au 

..about the Honorary Mirsu Earwicker, L.S.D., 

..and the Snake (Nuggets!) 

..by a Woman of the World 

..who only can Tell Naked Truths about a Dear Man 

..and all his Conspirators 

..how they all Tried to Fall him 

..Putting it all around Lucalizod about Privates Earwicker 

..and a Pair of Sloppy Sluts plainly 

..Showing all the Unmentionability 

..falsely Accusing about the Raincoats.

The proteiform graph itself is a polyhedron of scripture. 

There was a time when naif alpha-betters would have written it down 

the tracing of a purely deliquescent recidivist, 

possibly ambi-dextrous, 

snub-nosed probably and presenting a strangely profound rain-bowl 

in his (or her) occiput. 

To the hardily curiosing ento-mophilust then 

it has shown a very sex-mosaic of nymphosis 

in which the eternal chimera-hunter Oriol-opos, 

now frond of sugars, 

then lief of saults, 

the sensory crowd in his belly 

coupled with an eye for the goods trooth 

bewilder-blissed by their night effluvia 

with guns like drums and fondlers like forceps 

per-sequest-ellates his vanessas from flore to flore. 

Somehows this sounds like the purest kidooley-oon 

wherein our mader-nacerution of lour lore is rich. 

All’s so herou from us him in a kitcher-nott darkness, 

by hasard and worn rolls arered, 

we must grope on till Zerogh hour 

like pou owl giaours 

as we are would we salve aught of moments for our aysore today. 

Amousin though not but. 

Closer inspection of the bordereau 

would reveal a multiplicity of personalities 

inflicted on the documents or document 

and some prevision of virtual crime or crimes might be made 

by anyone unwary enough 

before any suitable occasion for it or them 

had so far managed to happen along. 

In fact, 

under the closed eyes of the inspectors 

the traits featuring the chiaroscuro coalesce, 

their contrarieties eliminated, 

in one stable somebody 

similarly as by the providential warring of heart-shaker with house-breaker 

and of dram-drinker against free-thinker 

our social something bowls along bumpily, 

experiencing a jolting series of prearranged disappointments, 

down the long lane of 

(it’s as semper as ox-house-humper) 

generations, more generations and still more generations.

———————————————————-

Say, baroun lousadoor, 

who in hall-hagal wrote the durn thing (p108) anyhow? 

Erect, beseated, mount-back, 

against a party-wall, 

below freezigrade, 

by the use of quill or style, 

with turbid or pellucid mind, 

accompanied or the reverse by mastication, 

interrupted by visit of seer to scribe or of scribe to site, 

atwixt two showers or atosst of a trike, 

rained upon or blown around, 

by a right-down regular racer from the soil 

or by a too pained whittle-wit laden with the loot of learning?

————————————————————-

Now, patience; 

and remember patience is the great thing, 

and above all things else 

we must avoid anything like being 

or becoming out of patience. 

A good plan used by worried business folk 

who may not have had many momentums 

to master Kung’s doctrine of the meang 

or the propriety codestruces of Carpri-mustimus 

is just to think of all the sinking fund of patience 

possessed in their conjoint names 

by both brothers Bruce 

with whom are incorporated 

their Scotch spider and Elberfeld’s Calculating Horses. 

If after years upon years of delving in ditches dark 

one tub-thumper more than others, 

Kinihoun or Kahanan, 

giardarner or mear measen-manonger, 

has got up for the darnall same purpose of reassuring us 

with all the barbar of the Carragee-house 

that our great ascendant was properly speaking 

three syllables less than his own surname 

(yes, yes, less!), 

that the ear of Fionn Earwicker aforetime 

was the trademark of a broadcaster 

with wicker local jargon for an ace’s patent 

(Hear! Calls! Everywhair!) 

then as to this radio-oscillating epi-epistle 

to which, cotton, silk or samite, 

kohol, gall or brickdust, 

we must ceaselessly return, 

where-abouts exactly at present 

in Siam, Hell or Tophet under that glori-sol 

which plays toura-loup with us 

in this Aludin’s Cove of our cagacity is that bright so-and-such 

to slip us the dinkum oil?

——————————————————————-

Naysayers we know. 

To conclude purely negatively 

from the positive absence of political odia and monetary requests 

that its page cannot ever have been a pen-product 

of a man or woman of that period or those parts 

is only one more unlooked-for conclusion leaped at, 

being tantamount to inferring from the non-presence of inverted commas 

(sometimes called quotation marks) on any page 

that its author was always constitutionally incapable 

of mis-appropriating the spoken words of others. (p109)

—————————————————————-

Luckily there is another cant to the questy. 

Has any fellow, 

of the dime a dozen type, 

it might with some profit some dull evening quietly be hinted—

has any usual sort of ornery josser, 

flat-chested fortyish, faintly flatulent 

and given to ratiocination by syncopation 

in the elucidation of complications, 

of his greatest Fung Yang dynas-descen-danced, 

only another the son of, in fact, 

ever looked sufficiently longly 

at a quite every-day-looking stamped addressed envelope? 

Admittedly it is an outer husk: 

its face, in all its featureful perfection of imperfection, 

is its fortune: 

it exhibits only the civil or military clothing 

of whatever passion-pallid nudity 

or plague-purple nakedness may happen to tuck itself under its flap. 

Yet to concentrate solely on the literal sense 

or even the psychological content of any document 

to the sore neglect 

of the enveloping facts themselves circumstantiating it 

is just as hurtful to sound sense 

(and let it be added to the truest taste) 

as were some fellow in the act 

of perhaps getting an intro from another fellow 

turning out to be a friend in need of his, 

say, to a lady of the latter’s acquaintance, 

engaged in performing the elaborative antecistral ceremony of upstheres, 

straightaway to run off and vision her plump and plain 

in her natural altogether, 

preferring to close his blinkhard’s eyes to the ethi-quethical fact that she was, 

after all, wearing 

for the space of the time being 

some definite articles of evolutionary clothing, 

inharmonious creations, 

a captious critic might describe them as, 

or not strictly necessary 

or a trifle irritating here and there, 

but for all that suddenly full of local colour and personal perfume 

and suggestive, too, of so very much more 

and capable of being stretched, 

filled out, if need or wish were, 

of having their surprisingly like coincidental parts separated 

don’t they now, 

for better survey by the deft hand of an expert, 

don’t you know? 

Who in his heart doubts either 

that the facts of feminine clothiering are there all the time 

or that the feminine fiction, 

stranger than the facts, 

is there also at the same time, 

only a little to the rere? 

Or that one may be separated from the other? 

Or that both may then be contemplated simultaneously? 

Or that each may be taken up and considered in turn apart from the other? (p109)

————————————————————-

Here let a few artifacts fend in their own favour. 

The river felt she wanted salt. 

That was just where Brien came in. 

The country asked for bearspaw for dindin! 

And boundin aboundin it got it surly. 

We who live under heaven, 

we of the clovery kingdom, 

we middlesins people 

have often watched the sky overreaching the land. 

We suddenly have. 

Our isle is Sainge. 

The place. 

That stern chuckler Mayhappy Mayhapnot, 

once said to repeation 

in that lutran conservatory way of his 

that Is-it-a-chapel-As-it-a-lukin was the one place, 

ult aut nult, 

in this madh vaal of tares 

(whose verdhure’s yellowed therever Phaiton parks his car 

while its tamelised tay is the drame of Drain-o-philias) 

where the possible was the improbable 

and the improbable the inevitable. 

If the proverbial bishop of our holy and undivided 

with this me ken or no me ken Zot is the Quiztune 

havvermashed had his twoe nails on the head 

we are in for a sequentiality of improbable possibles 

though possibly nobody 

after having grubbed up a lock of cwold cworn aboove his subject 

probably in Harrystotalies 

or the vivle 

will go out of his way to applaud him 

on the onboiassed back of his remark 

for utterly impossible as are all these events 

they are probably as like those which may have taken place 

as any others which never took person at all are ever likely to be. 

Ahahn!

————————————————————

About that original hen. 

Midwinter (fruur or kuur?) was in the offing 

and Premver a promise of a pril when, 

as kisch-a-brigies sang life’s old sa-hat-song, 

an ice-clad shiverer, 

merest of bantlings 

observed a cold fowl behaviourising strangely 

on that fatal midden or chip factory or comical-bottomed cop-sjute 

(dump for short) 

afterwards changed into the orangery 

when in the course of deeper demolition 

unexpectedly one bushman’s holiday

 its limon threw up a few spontaneous fragments of orange-peel, 

the last remains of an outdoor meal 

by some unknown sun-seeker or place-hider illico 

way back in his mistridden past. 

What child of a strand-looper 

but keepy little Kevin 

in the despondful surrounding of such sneezing cold 

would ever have trouved up on a strate that was called strete 

a motive for future saintity 

by euchring the finding of the Ardagh chalice 

by another heily innocent and beach-walker 

whilst trying with pious clamour 

to wheedle Tipperaw (p111) raw raw ree-raw puteters 

out of Now Sealand in spignt of the patch-purple of the massacre, 

a dual a duel to die to day, 

goddam and biggod, 

sticks and stanks, 

of most of the Jacobiters.

—————————————————————

The bird in the case was Belinda of the Dorans, 

a more than quinque-gintarian 

(Terziis prize with Serni medal, 

Cheep-a-lizzy’s Hane Exposition) 

and what she was scratching at the hour of klokking twelve 

looked for all this zog-zag world like a goodish-sized sheet of letter-paper 

originating by transhipt from Boston (Mass.) 

of the last of the first 

to Dear whom it proceded to mention Maggy well 

& all-at-home’s health well 

only the hate turned the mild on the van Houtens 

and the general’s elections 

with a lovely face of some born gentleman 

with a beautiful present of wedding cakes for dear thank-you Chriesty 

and with grand fun-fer-all of poor Father Michael 

don’t forget unto life’s 

& Muggy well how are you Maggy 

& hopes soon to hear well 

& must now close it 

with fondest to the two-inns 

with four cross-kisses 

for holy paul holey comer holi-poli wholly-island 

pee ess from (locust may eat all but this sign shall they never) 

affectionate large-looking tache of tch. 

The stain, and that a tea-stain 

(the over-cautelousness of the master-bilker here, as usual, 

signing the page away), 

marked it off on the spout of the moment 

as a genuine relique of ancient Irish pleasant pottery 

of that lydia-like languishing class 

known as a hurry-me-o’er-the-hazy.

—————————————

Why then how?

————————————-

Well, almost any photoist worth his chemicots 

will tip anyone asking him the teaser 

that if a negative of a horse happens to melt enough while drying, 

well, what you do get is, 

well, a positively grotesquely distorted macro-mass 

of all sorts of horse-happy values 

and masses of melt-while horse.

Tip. 

Well, this freely is what must have occurred to our missive 

(there’s a sod of a turb for you! 

please wisp off the grass!) 

unfilthed from the boucher 

by the sagacity of a look-me-little like-me-long hen. 

Heated residence 

in the heart of the orange-flavoured mud-mound 

had partly obliterated the negative to start with, 

causing some features palpably nearer your pecker 

to be swollen up most grossly 

while (p112) the farther back we manage to wiggle 

the more we need the loan of a lens 

to see as much as the hen saw. 

Tip.

——————————————

You is feeling like you was lost in the bush, boy? 

You says: It is a puling sample jungle of woods. 

You most shouts out: 

Bethicket me for a stump of a beech 

if I have the poultriest notions what the farest he all means. 

Gee up, girly! 

The quad gospellers may own the targum 

but any of the Zingari shoolerim may pick a peck of kindlings yet 

from the sack of auld hensyne.

—————————————————-

Lead, kindly fowl! 

They always did: ask the ages. 

What bird has done yesterday man may do next year, 

be it fly, be it moult, be it hatch, 

be it agreement in the nest. 

For her socio-scientific sense is sound as a bell, sir, 

her volucrine auto-mutativeness right on normalcy: 

she knows, 

she just feels she was kind of born to lay and love eggs 

(trust her to propagate the species 

and hoosh her fluff-balls safe through din and danger!); 

lastly but mostly, 

in her genesic field it is all game and no gammon; 

she is lady-like in everything she does 

and plays the gentleman’s part every time. 

Let us auspice it! 

Yes, before all this has time to end 

the golden age must return with its vengeance. 

Man will become dirigible, 

Ague will be rejuvenated, 

woman with her ridiculous white burden 

will reach by one step sublime incubation, 

the mane-wanting human lioness 

with her dishorned discipular man-ram 

will lie down together publicly flank upon fleece. 

No, assuredly, they are not justified, 

those gloom-pourers who grouse 

that letters have never been quite their old selves again 

since that weird weekday in bleak Janiveer 

(yet how palmy date in a waste’s oasis!) 

when to the shock of both, 

Biddy Doran looked at literature.

————————————————————-

And. 

She may be a mere marcella, 

this midget madgetcy, 

Misthress of Arths. 

But. 

It is not a hear or say of some anomorous letter, 

signed Toga Girilis, (teasy dear). 

We have a cop of her fist right against our nosibos. 

We note the paper with her jotty young watermark: 

Notre Dame du Bon Marché. 

And she has a heart of Arin! 

What lumi-lilts as she fols with her fall-i-mineers and her nadia-nods. 

As a strow will shaw she does the wind blague, 

recting to show the rudess of a robur curling 

and shewing the fansaties of a frizette. 

But how many of her readers (p113) realise 

that she is not out to dizzle-dazzle 

with a graith uncouthrement of postman-tuam glasseries 

from the lapins and the grigs. 

Nuttings on her wile-life! 

Grabar gooden grandy for old almeanium adamologists 

like Dariau-maurius and Zovo-trima-serov-merav-merouvian; 

(dmzn!); she feel plain plate one flat fact thing 

and if, lastways firdst-wise, 

a man alones sine anyon anyons utharas has no rates to done a kik at 

with anyon anakars about tutus milking fores 

and the rereres on the outer-rand asikin the tutus to be forrarder. 

Thing-crookly-ex-in-every-pastures-ix-dix-likence-

him-around-hers-the-magger-by-kink-ink-ankan-

with-down-mind-lookingated. 

Mesdaims, Marmouselles, Mescerfs! 

Silvapais! 

All schwants (schwrites) ischt tell the cock’s troot-about him. 

Kapak kapuk. 

No minzies matter. 

He had to see life foully the plak and the smut, (schwrites). 

There were three men in him (schwrites). 

Dancings (schwrites) was his only ttoo feebles. 

With apple harlottes. 

And a little moll-vogels. 

Spissially (schwrites) when they peaches. 

Honeys wore camelia paints. 

Yours very truthful. 

Add dapple inn. 

Yet is it but an old story, 

the tale of a Tree-stone with one Ysold, 

of a Mons held by tent-pegs and his pal whatholoosed on the run, 

what Cadman could but Badman wouldn’t, 

any Genoaman against any Venis, 

and why Kate takes charge of the waxworks.

———————————————————-

Let us now, 

weather, health, dangers, public orders and other circumstances permitting, 

of perfectly convenient, 

if you police, 

after you, 

police-police, 

pardoning mein, 

ich beam so fresch, bey? 

drop this jiggery-pokery and talk straight turkey meet to mate, 

for while the ear, be we mikealls or nicholists, 

may sometimes be inclined to believe others 

the eye, whether browned or nolensed, 

find it devilish hard now and again even to believe itself. 

Habes aures et num videbis? 

Habes oculos ac manne-palpa-buat? 

Tip! 

Drawing nearer to take our slant at it 

(since after all it has met with misfortune while all underground), 

let us see all there may remain to be seen.

—————————————————

I am a worker, a tombstone mason, 

anxious to pleace averyburies 

and jully glad when Christmas comes his once ayear. 

You are a poorjoist, 

unctuous to polise nope-bobbies 

and tunnibelly (p114) soully when ’tis thime took o’er home, gin. 

We cannot say aye to aye. 

We cannot smile noes from noes. 

Still. 

One cannot help noticing 

that rather more than half of the lines run north-south 

in the Nemzes and Bukarahast directions 

while the others go west-east 

in search from Maliziies with Bulgarad 

for, tiny tot though it looks 

when schtschup-nistling alongside other incunabula, 

it has its cardinal points for all that. 

These ruled barriers 

along which the traced words, run, march, halt, walk, 

stumble at doubtful points, 

stumble up again in comparative safety 

seem to have been drawn first of all in a pretty checker 

with lampblack and blackthorn. 

Such crossing is ante-christian of course, 

but the use of the home-born shillelagh 

as an aid to calligraphy 

shows a distinct advance from savagery to barbarism. 

It is seriously believed by some that the intention may have been geodetic, 

or, in the view of the cannier, 

domestic economical. 

But by writing thith-aways end to end 

and turning, turning 

and end to end hith-aways writing 

and with lines of litters slittering up 

and louds of latters slettering down, 

the old seme-to-my-place and jupet-back-again from tham 

Let Rise till Hum Lit. Sleep, 

where in the waste is the wisdom?

————————————————————

Another point, 

in addition to the original sand, pounce powder, 

drunkard paper or soft rag used 

(any vet or inhanger in ous sot’s social can see the seen for seem-self, 

a wee ftofty od room, 

the cheery spluttered on the one karrig, 

a darka disheen of voos from Dalbania, 

any gots-quantity of racky, 

a portogal and some buk setting out on the sofer, 

you remember the sort of soft-ball sucker motru used to tell us 

when we were all biri-biyas or nippies and messas) 

it has acquired accretions of terricious matter 

whilst loitering in the past. 

The tea-time-stained terminal 

(say not the tag, mummer, or our show’s a failure!) 

is a cosy little brown study all to oneself 

and, whether it be thumb-print, made-mark or just a poor trait of the artless, 

its importance in establishing the identities in the writer complexus 

(for if the hand was one, 

the minds of active and agitated were more than so) 

will be best appreciated by never forgetting 

that both before and after the battle of the Boyne 

it was a habit not to sign letters (p115) always. 

Tip. 

And it is surely a lesser ignorance 

to write a word with every consonant too few 

than to add all too many. 

The end? 

Say it with missiles then and thus arabesque the page. 

You have your cup of scalding Souchong, 

your taper’s waxen drop, 

your cat’s paw, 

the clove or coffin-nail you chewed or champed as you worded it, 

your lark in clear air. 

So why, pray, sign anything 

as long as every word, 

letter, 

penstroke, 

paperspace is a perfect signature of its own? 

A true friend is known much more easily, 

and better into the bargain, 

by his personal touch, 

habits of full or undress, 

movements, 

response to appeals for charity 

than by his footwear, say. 

And, speaking anent Tiberias 

and other incestuish salacities among geronto-phils, 

a word of warning 

about the tender-loined passion hinted at. 

Some soft-nosed peruser might mayhem take it up erogenously 

as the usual case of spoons, 

prostituta in herba 

plus dinky pinks deliberatively summersaulting off her bisexycle, 

at the main entrance of curate’s perpetual soutane suit 

with her one to see and awoh! 

who picks her up as gingerly as any balm-bearer would 

to feel where-upon the virgin was most hurt and nicely asking: 

whyre have you been so grace a mauling 

and where were you chaste me child? 

Be who, farther potential? 

and so wider but we grisly old Sykos 

who have done our unsmiling bit on ’alices, 

when they were yung and easily freudened, 

in the penumbra of the procuring room 

and what oracular come-pression we have had apply to them! 

could (did we care to sell our feebought silence in camera) 

tell our very moist-nostrilled one 

that father in such virgated contexts 

is not always that undemonstrative relative 

(often held up to our contumacy) 

who settles our hashbill for us 

and what an innocent allabroad’s adverb 

such as Michaelly looks like 

can be suggestive of under the pudenda-scope 

and, finally, what a neurasthene nympho-lept, 

endocrine-pineal typus, 

of inverted parentage 

with a prepossessing drauma present in her past 

and a priapic urge for congress with agnates before cognates 

fundamentally is feeling for under her lubricitous meiosis 

when she refers with liking to some feeler she fancie’s face. 

And Mm. 

We could. 

Yet what need to say? 

’Tis as human a little story as paper could well carry, 

in (p116) affect, 

as sing-sing so Salaman susuing to swittvitles 

while as unbluffingly blurt-u-brusk-blunt as an Esra? 

the cat, the cat’s meeter, the meeter’s cat’s wife, 

the meeter’s cat’s wife’s half better, 

the meeter’s cat’s wife’s half better’s meeter, 

and so back to our horses, 

for we also know, 

what we have perused from the pages of I Was A Gemral, 

that Showting up of Bulsklivism by ‘Schottenboum’, 

that Father Michael about this red time of the white terror 

equals the old regime 

and Margaret is the social revolution 

while cakes mean the party funds 

and dear thank you signifies national gratitude. 

In fine, we have heard, 

as it happened, of Spartacus intercellular. 

We are not corknered yet, dead hand! 

We can recall, with voluntears, the froggy jew, 

and sweeter far ’twere now westhinks in Dumbil’s fair city 

ere one more year is o’er. 

We tourned our coasts to the good gay tunes. 

When from down swords 

the sea merged the oldowth guns 

and answer made the bold O’ Dwyer. 

But. 

Est modest in verbos. 

Let a prostitute be whoso stands before a door 

and winks or parks herself in the fornix 

near a makeussin wall (sinsin! sinsin!) 

and the curate one who brings strong waters (gingin! gingin!), 

but also, and dinna forget, 

that there is many asleeps between some-at-home’s first 

and more-in-ausland’s last 

and that the beautiful presence of waiting kates will 

until life’s (!) be more than enough 

to make any milk-mike in the language 

of sweet tarts punch hell’s hate 

into his twin nicky and that Maggy’s tea, 

or your majesty, 

if heard as a boost from a born gentleman is (?). 

For if the lingo gasped between kicksheets, 

however basically English, 

were to be preached 

from the mouths of wicker-church-wardens and metaphysicians 

in the row and advokaatoes, 

allvoyous, 

demivoyelles, 

languoaths, 

lesbiels, 

dentelles, 

gutter-howls 

and furtz, 

where would their practice be 

or where the human race itself 

were the Pythagorean sesquipedalia of the pan-epistemion, 

however apically Volapucky, 

grunted and gromwelled, 

ichabod, 

habakuk, 

opanoff, 

uggamyg, 

hapaxle, 

gomenon, 

ppppfff, 

over country stiles, 

behind slated dwelling-houses, 

down blind lanes, 

or, when all fruit fails, 

under some sacking left on a coarse cart?

—————————————————————

So hath been, love: 

tis tis: 

and will be: 

till wears and tears and (p117) ages. 

Thief us the night, 

steal we the air, 

shawl thiner liefest, mine! 

Here, Ohere, insult the fair! 

Traitor, bad hearer, brave! 

The lightning look, 

the birding cry, 

awe from the grave, 

ever-flowing on the times. 

Feuera-gusaria iorden-water; 

now godsun shine on menday’s daughter; 

a good clap, a fore marriage, a bad wake, tell hell’s well; 

such is man-o-wife’s lot of lose and win again, 

like he’s gruen quhiskers on who’s chin again, 

she plucketed them out but they grown in again. 

So what are you going to do about it? 

O dear!

——————————————————————

If juness she saved! 

Ah ho! 

And if yulone he pouved! 

The olold stoliolum! 

From quiqui quinet to miche-miche chelet 

and a jambe-batiste to a brulo-brulo! 

It is told in sounds in utter that, 

in signs so adds to, 

in universal, 

in poly-gluttural, 

in each auxiliary neutral idiom, 

sordo-mutics, flori-lingua, shelta-focal, flay-flutter, 

a con’s cubane, a pro’s tutute, strass-arab, 

ereperse and any-thongue athall. 

Since nozzy Nanette tripped palmy-ways 

with Highho Harry there’s a spurt-fire turf a’kind o’kindling 

when oft as the souff-souff blows her peaties up 

and a claypot wet for thee, 

my Sitys, 

and talka-talka tell Tibbs has eve: 

and whathough 

(revilous life proving aye the death of ronaldses 

when winpower wine has bucked the kick on poor won man) 

billiousness has been billiousness 

during milliums of millenions 

and our mixed racings have been giving two hoots 

or three jeers for the grape, vine and brew 

and Pieter’s in Nieuw Amsteldam 

and Paoli’s where the poules go 

and rum smelt his end for him 

and he dined off sooth american 

(it would give one the frier even were one a normal Kettle-licker) 

this old-world epistola 

of their weatherings and their marryings 

and their buryings and their natural selections 

has combled tumbled down to us fersch and made-at-all-hours 

like an ould cup on tay. 

As I was hottin me souser. 

Haha! 

And as you was caldin your dutchy hovel. 

Hoho! She tole the tail or her toon. 

Huhu!

———————————————————-

Now, kapnimancy and infusionism may both fit as tight as two trivets 

but while we in our wee free state, 

holding to that prestatute in our charter, 

may have our irremovable doubts as to the whole sense of the lot, 

the interpretation of any phrase in (p118) the whole, 

the meaning of every word of a phrase so far deciphered out of it, 

however unfettered our Irish daily independence, 

we must vaunt no idle dubiosity 

as to its genuine authorship and holus-bolus authoritativeness. 

And let us bring-thee-cease to beakerings on that clink, olmond bottler! 

On the face of it, to volt back to our desultory horses, 

and for your rough-shod mind, 

baffle-lost bull, 

the affair is a thing once for all done 

and there you are somewhere and finished in a certain time, 

be it a day or a year or even supposing, 

it should eventually turn out to be 

a serial number of goodness gracious alone knows how many days or years. 

Anyhow, somehow and somewhere, 

before the book-flood or after her ebb, 

somebody mentioned by name in his telephone directory, 

Coccolanius or Gallotaurus, 

wrote it, wrote it all, wrote it all down, 

and there you are, 

full stop. 

O, undoubtedly yes, and very potably so, 

but one who deeper thinks 

will always bear in the baccbuccus of his mind 

that this downright there you are 

and there it is is only all in his eye. 

Why?

———————————————————-

Because, Soferim Bebel, 

if it goes to that, 

(and dormer-window gossip 

will cry it from the housetops 

no surelier than the writing on the wall 

will hue it to the mod of men 

that mote in the main street) 

every person, place and thing in the chaosmos of Alle 

anyway connected with the gobbly-dumped turkery 

was moving and changing every part of the time: 

the travelling inkhorn 

(possibly pot), 

the hare and turtle pen and paper, 

the continually more and less inter-misunderstanding minds 

of the anti-collaborators, 

the as time went on as it will variously inflected, 

differently pronounced, 

otherwise spelled, 

changeably meaning 

vocable script-signs. 

No, so holp me Petault, 

it is not a miseffectual why-acinthinous riot 

of blots and blurs and bars and balls and hoops and wriggles 

and juxtaposed jottings linked by spurts of speed: 

it only looks as like it as damn it; 

and, sure, we ought really to rest thankful 

that at this deleteful hour of dungflies dawning 

we have even a written on with dried ink scrap of paper at all 

to show for ourselves, 

tare it or leaf it, 

(and we are lufted to ourselves as the soul-fisher 

when he led the cat out of the bout) 

after all that we lost and plundered of it 

even to the hidmost coignings of the (p119) earth 

and all it has gone through 

and by all means, 

after a good ground kiss to Terracussa 

and for wars luck our lefftoff’s flung over our home homoplate, 

cling to it as with drowning hands, 

hoping against hope all the while that, 

by the light of philophosy, 

(and may she never folsage us!) 

things will begin to clear up a bit one way or another 

within the next quarrel of an hour 

and be hanged to them 

as ten to one they will too, 

please the pigs, 

as they ought to categorically, 

as, stricly between ourselves, 

there is a limit to all things 

so this will never do.

—————————————————————

For, with that farm-frow’s foul flair for that flay-fell fox-fetor, 

(the calamite’s columitas calling for calamitous calamitance) 

who that scrutinising marvels at those indignant whip-loop-lashes; 

those so prudently bolted or blocked rounds; 

the touching reminiscence of an incompletet trail or dropped final; 

a round thousand whirligig glorioles, 

prefaced by (alas!) now illegible airy plume-flights, 

all tiberiously ambi-embellishing the initials majuscule of Earwicker: 

the meant to be baffling chrismon tri-lithon sign , 

finally called after some his hes hecitency Hec, 

which, moved contra-watchwise, 

represents his title in sigla as the smaller , 

fontly called following a certain change of state of grace of nature alp or delta, 

when single, 

stands for or tautologically stands beside the consort: 

(though for that matter, 

since we have heard from Cathay cyrcles 

how the hen is not mirely a tick or two 

after the first fifth fourth of the second eighth twelfth—

siang-chang hong-kong san-sheneul—

but yirely the other and thirtieth of the ninth from the twentieth, 

our own vulgar 432 and 1132 irrespectively, 

why not take the former for a village inn, 

the latter for an upsidown bridge, 

a multiplication marking for cross-roads ahead, 

which you like pot-hook for the family gibbet, 

their old four-wheedler for the bucker’s field, 

a tea anyway for a tryst someday, 

and his one-side-missing for an all-blind alley 

leading to an Irish plot in the Champ de Mors, not?) 

the steady monologuy of the interiors; 

the pardonable confusion 

for which some blame the cudgel 

and more blame the soot 

but unthanks to which the pees with their caps awry 

are quite as often as not (p120) 

taken for kews with their tails in their 

or are quite as often as not 

taken for pews with their tails in their mouths, 

thence your pristopher polombos, 

hence our Kat Kresbyterians; 

the curt witty wotty dashes 

never quite just right at the trim trite truth letter; 

the sudden spluttered petulance of some capItalIsed MIddle; 

a word as cunningly hidden in its maze of confused drapery 

as a field-mouse in a nest of coloured ribbons: 

that absurdly bulls-footed bee declaring 

with an even plainer dummp-show than does the mute commoner with us 

how hard a thing it is to mpe mporn a gentlerman: 

and look at this pre-pronominal funferal, 

engraved and retouched and edge-wiped and pudden-padded, 

very like a whale’s egg farced with pemmican, 

as were it sentenced to be nuzzled over 

a full trillion times for ever and a night 

till his noddle sink or swim 

by that ideal reader suffering from an ideal insomnia: 

all those red raddled obeli cayenne-pepper-cast over the text, 

calling unnecessary attention to errors, omissions, repetitions and misalignments: 

that (probably local or personal) variant maggers 

for the more generally accepted majesty 

which is but a trifle and yet may quietly amuse: 

those supercilious-looking criss-crossed Greek ees awkward-like 

perched there and here out of date 

like sick owls hawked back to Athens: 

and the gee-gees too, 

jesuistically formed at first 

but afterwards genuflected aggrily toewards the occident: 

the Ostrogothic kakography affected for certain phrases of Etruscan stable-talk 

and, in short, the learning betrayed at almost every line’s end: 

the head-strength (at least eleven men of thirty-two palfry-craft) 

revealed by a constant labour to make a ghimel pass through the eye of an iota: 

this, for instance, utterly unexpected sinistro-gyric return 

to one peculiar sore point in the past; 

those throne open double-yous 

(of an early muddy terranean origin 

whether man chooses to damn them agglutinatively 

loo—too—blue—face—ache 

or ill-voo-daw-pee-hole 

or, kants koorts, topple-fouls) 

seated with such flop-right-down determination 

and reminding uus ineluctably of nature at her naturalest 

while that fretful fidget eff, 

the hornful digamma of your borna-barbar, 

rarely heard now 

save when falling from the unfashionable lipsus of some hetaro-sexual 

(used always in two bold-faced print types—

one of them as wrong-headed as (p121) his Claudian brother, 

is it worth while interrupting to say?—

throughout the papyrus as the revise mark) 

stalks all over the page broods  sensation-seeking an idea, 

amid the verbiage, gaunt, stands dejectedly in the diapered window margin, 

with its basque of bay-leaves all aflutter about its forks-frogs, 

paces with a frown, jerking to and fro, 

flinging phrases here, there, or returns inhibited, 

with some half-halted suggestion, , 

dragging its shoestring; 

the curious warning sign before our proto-parent’s ipsissima verba 

(a very pure nondescript, by the way, 

sometimes a palm-tailed otter, 

more often the arbutus fruit-flower-leaf of the cain-apple) 

which paleographers call 

a leak in the thatch 

or the aran-man ing-per-whis through the hole of his hat, 

indicating that the words which follow may be taken in any order desired, 

hole of Aran man the hat through the whispering his ho 

(here keen again and begin again 

to make sound-sense and sense-sound kin again); 

those haughty-pitched disdotted aiches 

easily of the rariest inas-droll 

as most of the jay-walking eyes we do plough into halve, 

unconnected, principial, medial or final, 

always jims in the jam, sahib, 

as pipless as thread-worms: 

the innocent exhibitionism of those frank yet capricious under-linings: 

that strange exotic serpentine, 

since so properly banished from our scripture, 

about as freak-wing a wetter-hand 

now as to see a right-headed lady-white don a corkhorse, 

which, in its invincible insolence ever longer more and of more morosity, 

seems to uncoil spirally and swell lacertine-lazily before our eyes 

under pressure of the writer’s hand; 

the ungainly musician-lessness so painted in sculpting self-sounder 

ah ha as black-artful as a podatus and dumb-founder 

oh ho oaproariose as ten canons in skelter-fugue: 

the studious omission of year number and era name from the date, 

the one and only time when our copyist 

seems at least to have grasped the beauty of restraint; 

the lubricitous conjugation of the last with the first: 

the gipsy mating of a grand stylish grave-digging 

with second-best buns 

(an interpolation: 

these munchables occur only in the Boother-browth family 

of MSS., Bb—Cod IV, Pap II, Brek XI, Lun III, Dinn XVII, 

Sup XXX, Fullup M D C X C: 

the scholiast has hungrily misheard a deadman’s toller as a muffin-bell): 

the four shortened (p122) ampersands under which we can glypse at 

and feel for ourselves across all those rush-years 

the warm soft short pants of the quick-scribbler: 

the vocative lapse from which it begins and the accusative hole in which it ends itself; the aphasia of that heroic agony of recalling a once loved number 

leading slip by slipper to a general amnesia of misnomering one’s own: 

next those ars, rrrr! those ars all bellical, 

the high-priest’s hieroglyph of kettle-tom and odds-bones, 

wrasted red-handedly from our hallowed rubric prayer 

for truce with booty, O’Remus pro Romulo, 

and rudely from the fane’s pinnacle tossed down by porter 

to within an aim’s ace of their quatrain of ruby-jets 

among Those Who arse without the Temple 

nor since Roe’s Distillery burn’d 

have quaff’d Night’s firefill’d Cup 

But jig jog jug 

as Day the Dicebox Throws, 

whang, loyal six I lead, 

out wi’yer heart’s bluid, blast ye, 

and there she’s for you, sir, whang her, 

the fine ooman, rouge to her lobster locks, 

the rossy, whang, 

God and O’Mara has it with his ruddy old Villain Rufus, 

wait, whang, God and you’re another 

he hasn’t for there’s my spoil five of spuds’s trumps, 

whang, whack on his pigs-king’s Kisser for him, 

K.M. O’Mara where are you?; 

then (coming over to the left aisle corner down) 

the cruciform postscript 

from which three basia or shorter and smaller oscula 

have been over-carefully scraped away, 

plainly inspiring the tenebrous Tunc page of the Book of Kells 

(and then it need not be lost sight of 

that there are exactly three squads of candidates 

for the crucian rose 

awaiting their turn in the marginal panels of Colum-killer, 

chugged in their three ballot-boxes, 

then set apart for such hanging committees, 

where two was enough for anyone, 

starting with old Matthew himself, 

as he with great distinction said then 

just as since then people speaking have fallen into the custom, 

when speaking to a person, 

of saying two is company 

when the third person is the person darkly spoken of, 

and then that last labio-lingual basium 

might be read as a suavium 

if whoever the embracer then was 

wrote with a tongue in his (or perhaps her) cheek 

as the case may have been then) 

and the fatal droop-a-dwindle slope of the blamed scrawl, 

a sure sign of imperfectible moral blindness; 

the too-muchness, the far-too-manyness (p123) of all those four-legged ems: 

and why spell dear god with a big thick dhee 

(why, O why, O why?): 

the cut and dry aks and wise form of the semifinal; 

and, eighteenthly or twenty-fourthly, but at least, thank Maurice, lastly 

when all is zed and done, 

the penelopean patience of its last paraphe, 

a colophon of no fewer than seven hundred and thirty-two strokes 

tailed by a leaping lasso—

who thus at all this marvelling but will press on hotly 

to see the vaulting feminine libido 

of those inter-branching ogham sex up-and-in-sweeps sternly controlled 

and easily repersuaded by the uniform matter-of-factness 

of a meandering male fist?

————————————————

Duff-Muggli, 

who now may be quoted by very kind arrangement 

(his dectro-sco-phonious photo-sensition 

under supra-sonic light control 

may be logged for by our none too distant futures 

as soon astone values can be turned out 

from Chromo-philomos, 

Limited at a milli-centime the micro-amp), 

first called this kind of paddy-go-easy partnership the ulykkhean 

or tetra-chiric 

or quad-rumane 

or ducks and drakes 

or debts and dishes perplex 

(v. Some Fore-stallings over that Studium of Sexo-phono-logistic Schizo-phrenesis, 

vol. xxiv, pp. 2-555) 

after the well-informed observation, 

made miles apart from the Master 

by Tung-Toyd 

(cf. Later Frustrations amengst the Neo-mugglian Teachings 

abaft the Semi-unconscience, passim) 

that in the case of the little-known periplic best-teller 

popularly associated with the names of the wretched mariner 

(tri-an-foran deff-we-doff our plum-sucked pattern shape-keeper) 

a Punic admiralty report, 

From MacPerson’s Oshean Round By the Tides of Jason’s Cruise, 

had been cleverly capsized and saucily republished 

as a do-decanesian baedeker of the every-tale-a-treat-in-itself variety 

which could hope satisfactorily 

to tickle me gander as game as your goose.

—————————————————————

The unmistaken identity of the persons in the Tiberiast duplex 

came to light in the most devious of ways. 

The original document was in what is known as 

Hanno O’Nonhanno’s unbrookable script, 

that is to say, it showed no signs of punctuation of any sort. 

Yet on holding the verso against a lit rush 

this new book of Morses responded most remarkably 

to the silent query of our world’s oldest light 

and its recto let out the piquant (p124) fact 

that it was but pierced butnot punctured 

(in the university sense of the term) 

by numerous stabs and foliated gashes made by a pronged instrument. 

These paper wounds, 

four in type, 

were gradually and correctly understood to mean 

stop, please stop, do please stop, and O do please stop respectively, 

and following up their one true clue, 

the circumflexuous wall of a single-minded men’s asylum, 

accentuated by bi tso fb rok engl a ssan dspl itch ina,

— Yard inquiries pointed out → 

that they ad bîn “provoked” ay  fork, 

of à grave Brofèsor; àth; ès Brèak-fast-table; 

acùtely profèššionally piquéd, 

to=introdùce a notion of time 

[ùpon à plane (?) sù ’ ’ fàç’e’] 

by pùnct! ingh oles (sic) in iSpace?! 

Deeply religious by nature and position, 

and warmly attached to Thee, 

and smear-bread and better and Him and new-laidills, 

it was rightly suspected that such ire could not have been visited by him 

Brot-fressor Prender-guest even under-wittingly, 

upon the ancestral pneuma of one whom, 

with rheuma, 

he venerated shamelessly at least once a week 

at Cockspur Common 

as his apple in his eye and her first boys’ best friend 

and, though plain English for a married lady misled heaps by the way, 

yet when some peerer or peeress detected that the four-leaved shamrock 

or quadrifoil jab 

was more recurrent wherever the script was clear 

and the term terse 

and that these two were the self-same spots 

naturally selected for her perforations by Dame Partlet on her dungheap, 

thinkers all put grown in waterung-spill-full Pratiland only 

and a playful fowl 

and musical me and not you in any case, 

two and two together, 

and, with a swarm of bisses honey-hunting after, 

a sigh for shyme (O, the petty-bonny rouge!) 

separated modest mouths. 

So be it. 

And it was. 

The letter-making of the explots of Fjorgn Camhelsson 

when he was in the Kvinnes country with Soldru’s men. 

With acknowledgment of our fervour of the first instant 

he remains years most fainfully. 

For post-scrapt see spoils. 

Though not yet had the sailor sipped that sup 

nor the humphar foamed to the fill. 

And fox and geese still kept the peace 

around L’Auberge du Pere Adam.

———————————————————-

Small need after that, 

old Jerome-solem, 

old Huff-snuff, 

old Andy-cox, 

old Oleca-sandrum, 

for quizzing your weekenders come (p125) to the R.Q. with: 

shoots off in a hiss, 

muddles up in a muss-mass 

and his whole’s a dismantled noon-drunkard’s son. 

Howbeit we heard not a son of sons to leave by him to oceanic society 

in his old man without a thing in his ignorance, 

Tulko MacHooley. 

And it was thus he was at every time, 

that son, and the other time, 

the day was in it and after the morrow 

Diremood is the name is on the writing chap of the psalter, 

the juxta-junctor of a dearmate 

and he passing out of one desire into its fellow. 

The daughters are after going and loojing for him, 

Torba’s nice-lookers of the fair neck. 

Wanted for millinary servance to olderly’s person by the Totty Askinses. 

Formelly confounded with amother. 

Maybe growing a moustache, did you say, 

with an adorable look of amuzement? 

And uses noclass billiard-halls with an up-an-down ladder? 

Not Hans the Curier 

though had he had have only had some little laughings 

and some less of cheeks 

and were he not so warried by his bulb of persecussion 

he could have, ay, and would have, as true as Essex bridge. 

And not Gopheph go gossip, I declare to man! 

Noe! 

To all’s much relief one’s half hypothesis of that jabber-jaw ape 

amok the showering jestnuts of Bruis-a-nose 

was hotly dropped 

and his room taken up by that odious 

and still today insufficiently mal-estimated note-snatcher 

(kak, pfooi, bosh and fiety, much earny, Gus, poteen? Sez you!) 

Shem the Penman.