In Truth


Should I put this on my blog?  Is it too intellectual or too stupid?  I am an anti-intellectual intellectual, at least aware of intellectuality.  I will make my own mind up, as usual.  Perhaps it is too inconsequential to include.  Although, people like reading other people’s letters.  They are nosy.
I will take your opinion into account, if you have one.  I don’t want to scare people.  Off, or otherwise.
File under infotainment,




You say you subscribed to my blog but are not being informed of uploads.  Quite likely due to a screw up on my part, due to technical incompetence.

Here is one you may or may not have read

Note its title, Autism.  Who said it is about autism?  Not me.  Don’t take anything at face value, especially connected to me.

Remember my poem, A Metaphor?  What does it say?  I won’t repeat myself.  I don’t wish to labour the point, so I won’t.

I thought I would recite a rhyme heard in youth, why I don’t know, will explain later:


Nelly ate jam and Nelly ate jelly,
Nelly went home with a pain in her —-
Don’t be mistaken and don’t be misled,
Nelly went home with a pain in her head.

Note the delicacy of this verse, intended to spare the feelings of the petite bourgeoisie.  It could be included in a volume called Not Rude Verses.  Suitable for children of all ages.  This work may not have been subjected to structural analysis, perhaps you could do the honours? 
 The French practitioners of that discipline appear to have died or gone out of favour.  What is France without its intellectuals?  Who will tell them what to think?  An acquaintance of mine who favoured that philosophy said funnily enough it has nothing to say about whether a book is good, of value, interesting.

Oscar Wilde said there are only two kinds of books, good books and bad books.  That’s too simple for intellectuals.  An intellectual,  a man who sleeps with other men’s wives.  Ask Sartre, through the medium of a seance.  He said Hell is other people, maybe he knows now.

A child’s garden of poesy.  The type of title of books of old.  Poetry For Poseurs, a possible title for today.  I thought of the title, Poems For People Who Don’t Like Poetry, maybe too explicit.  I struggle to make the implicit explicit.  That is my aim.


It cannot be said often enough that repeating oneself is boring.  Double meaning, double entendres, they have their part to play in the grand scheme of things.  How to be?  Subtle as a flying mallet, as some guy called his LP record, or not.  No man can be all things to all men, perhaps to all women?  We can but try.

Art requires definition.  Definitely maybe.  From the Dandy and the Beano to Shakespeare and back again its trailblazing trajectory transmutes tears to triumphant tragi-comedy, alliteration aside.  Dandy, joy of my youth!  If you have a good name for a book you’re half way there.  The Flight From Meaning?  Flights Of Fancy?  A Hundred Shades Of Black?  Common Sense Made Easy?  Common Sense For All?

Shaw was described as a man of uncommon common sense.   I wish for more than common sense, but that would do for starters.  Tomorrow the stars.  Today the Moon.  I’ll take the galaxy.  How much is that, please?  Put the universe on the bill.  Will pay later.

From the Dandy to this,

Tich Ennis

10th April, 2016

See also Pee, Po, Belly, Bum, Drawers by Flanders and Swann, a child’s exit from the Garden of Eden.  Unless I am mistaken, which I may be.   Ah, lost innocence!