Wittgenstein (or: Those Were the Days) — Kent Johnson
It was spring—Primaverus mysteriumus!
Down at The Eagle we took turns making him fly
around the room. (Russell and Keynes were already KO’d
in the loo.) Then, one of us hung him up by the back of his
gown against the board. And then we had some shots and
some stout, and spoke like men do. And then we took out our
dart cases (lacquered and dark, like the compacts of sluts) and
aimed. We aimed inside the rules of the game that is named:
“Why Is There Somethinge Rather Than Nothinge?”
O Pembroke, with your portrait of Spenser and your Chris Smart Room!
O Christ’s, with your portrait of Marlowe, the pederast and spy!
O King’s, with your massive green and your flowers and punts and your
red-hot poker with which the insufferable prick threatened our Popper!