(Author’s) what comes first, epistemology or metaphysics? I dare say epistemology; the engine that drives thinking about metaphysics, ethics and ontology. We must first establish a way of thinking, a shared language, an I other I, a hermeneutic. I other I spend a great deal of time and effort thinking, thinking about what it is I’m thinking and how it is I’m thinking what I’m thinking. The circuitous hermeneutic circle, Dante’s rabbit-hole, canticle by canticle, riding high and dry on the back of a poet, no less. Without an epistemology there would be no metaphysics or ethics, no ontology or natural science, no mathematics or geometry, no ciphering or calculating, no language, no I, you or other (aside).
Shit-hair legged piglets play the endgame shamelessly; shameless little cunts could give a crab whether epistemology is the first science, piggish wee cunts the lot of ‘em. Pig sty epistemology, what shameless piggery. Astride the straddling grave with a leg cocked on either each side, pigs and pong, such piggish piggery. The shamble leg man put on his Corbusier cap and Roy Roger’s cow-chaps and stood at the foot of the aqueduct looking out onto the grassy grass that grew in grassy clumps behind the Waymart. He did this when he felt that the world was as it should be, everything lineup in neat rows, or when the ulcers ate away at his gut liked Skinnerian rats.
In the grassy grass he saw a codger of titmice rummaging through the Waymart dustbin, one on top of the other, the biggest mouse at the bottom of the pyramid, the littlest at the top. He figured they would eat they’re fill and scurry away, the littlest at the front of the scurry, the biggest at the rear. ‘Chancy cunts’ he grumbled to himself, ‘what nerve they have…devil-mice’. A piece of gray-blue sky broke off and hit the shamble leg man on the tiptop of his head, his Corbusier cap toppling in every which direction, the titmice mooing and breaking stitch. ‘...devil-mice, scourge of the bloody earth’.
The alms man said to the shamble leg man that titmice were good for the eating, as they had such tiny frail bones a man could swallow them without breaking a stitch. Skewered, spitted, broiled, baked, skillet-fried or wrapped in Quaker’s loaf with Gibbs’ hard mustard and a sprig of crabweed, good for the eating and thrice to the dozen. A piece of blacktop broke free and caromed skyward hitting the alms man square in the fob, his alms cap tippling every which where, the shamble leg man mooing and breaking stitch. ‘That’ll show you’ he said shamelessly, ‘…titmice good for the eating, not on my dime, thrice to the dozen or not’. At that very moment a codger of wee shit-haired piglets broke stitch, the littlest one wee-weaning all the way home, the biggest one crabwalking like a gunslinger gone bad. ‘…wee chancy cunts’ grumbled the shamble leg man, ‘…and not a tosspot to pisspot in’.
Shit-hair legged piglets play the endgame shamelessly; shameless little cunts could give a crab whether epistemology is the first science, piggish wee cunts the lot of ‘em. Pig sty epistemology, what shameless piggery. Astride the straddling grave with a leg cocked on either each side, pigs and pong, such piggish piggery. The shamble leg man put on his Corbusier cap and Roy Roger’s cow-chaps and stood at the foot of the aqueduct looking out onto the grassy grass that grew in grassy clumps behind the Waymart. He did this when he felt that the world was as it should be, everything lineup in neat rows, or when the ulcers ate away at his gut liked Skinnerian rats.
In the grassy grass he saw a codger of titmice rummaging through the Waymart dustbin, one on top of the other, the biggest mouse at the bottom of the pyramid, the littlest at the top. He figured they would eat they’re fill and scurry away, the littlest at the front of the scurry, the biggest at the rear. ‘Chancy cunts’ he grumbled to himself, ‘what nerve they have…devil-mice’. A piece of gray-blue sky broke off and hit the shamble leg man on the tiptop of his head, his Corbusier cap toppling in every which direction, the titmice mooing and breaking stitch. ‘...devil-mice, scourge of the bloody earth’.
The alms man said to the shamble leg man that titmice were good for the eating, as they had such tiny frail bones a man could swallow them without breaking a stitch. Skewered, spitted, broiled, baked, skillet-fried or wrapped in Quaker’s loaf with Gibbs’ hard mustard and a sprig of crabweed, good for the eating and thrice to the dozen. A piece of blacktop broke free and caromed skyward hitting the alms man square in the fob, his alms cap tippling every which where, the shamble leg man mooing and breaking stitch. ‘That’ll show you’ he said shamelessly, ‘…titmice good for the eating, not on my dime, thrice to the dozen or not’. At that very moment a codger of wee shit-haired piglets broke stitch, the littlest one wee-weaning all the way home, the biggest one crabwalking like a gunslinger gone bad. ‘…wee chancy cunts’ grumbled the shamble leg man, ‘…and not a tosspot to pisspot in’.
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