I Cooked the Book That Would Not Tap

I Cooked the Book that Would Not Tap A Doomsday, a nightmare gone wrong, My hand shot with pain and didn’t stop, Bandages hid the wound I wove for kong, The silence echoed round the wheel fop. I screamed with tears which said the news, When sirenes had been screened for writ, ...sorry, I did not mean anything else like Draughts unveiled the blood for reviews, That cared enough to dare read the fit. Arching, the doctor stood vacant and here, Physicalism bent metaphor until she looped, Analogy personified emphatic nature’s fear, When realism criticised cubisms’ truly trooped. Critical realism still made no ontological sense, My metaphysical slippers knew no god, Subjectivism objected to empirical arms tense, When constructivism departed from my odd. I could not write to epistemology for methodology, ‘Cos clearly my relativity had got it substantive. Moral absolutism saw humankind as pedagogy, Still, not yet a guess, a list, a bond, gift, a plaintiff. Rationalism was not a natural phenomenon, fair, No predicates set my entities alight to condition, The proposition adjunct to abstract and layer, I imagined the mathematics that truly supposition. This OR that, tip AND rat, not for me or negation FOR ALL humanities THERE EXISTS a surreal, Mere, underneath my formula, nude propagation, Creating the sum of me that axiomed regal’s legal. Logic. Logic, just pure blooded logic. Critical, Crucial. Conscience, not questioning the cost, fact, Never asking for terms or claim, the carer brutal, The dame. The lame as mentioning the act. Structural. Rhoda Monihan