Janet and John live in Brexitania.
In the county of Brexitshire.
See the M20. See the lorries.
Janet and John are brexiticians.
So they are experts on brexitology.
See them run around like headless chickens.
Janet is brexaemic. John has brexitosis.
And they are both dying for brexecution day.
See the flags waving. See the hope and glory.
Janet and John are preparing for brexicide.
Like good brexistenstialists.
See Janet tie her noose. See John load his revolver.
The (in)famous ‘Janet and John’ picture books are used to teach young readers.
In my latest effort,
All the angels fly out of a book
The moment I open it,
And their wings begin to disintegrate
As they make contact with the atmosphere.
The air throttles their prayer.
Then their bodies crack and crumble,
So they shatter without a sound,
When they hit the ground.
The ground in this case is an opening field
WITTGENSTEIN ON THE SOČA
This war was lost from the beginning.
I was lost from the beginning.
Neither my beginning nor the war’s end
Can be changed, but my end can be;
It can be changed by epiphany.
So for me, this war is not yet lost.
This is my war.
If I do not change, my end will be no tragedy.
A changed life or death: both mean victory.
Both will satisfy duty.
I cannot speak to the Italians.
I cannot tell them we have lost the war.
I can only guide our guns
To shell them more accurately,
To kill them more efficiently.
Some things cannot be said, only shown:
Words become shrapnel.
Killing more men cannot end the war,
But might save my life from its lost beginnings.
To make the world better, I must better myself.
War is impervious to logic, except its own,
Which is unspeakable.
A man in bits cannot speak.
A corpse is not a proposition.
From the beginning, the dead lost this war.
My duty is a price for which others must pay.