It was a lingering winter; all the streets
were melted ice and ash, and two young men
fresh from the matinee of Scriabin
stumbled home to stain their Cambridge sheets
and argue over tonal innovation:
Ludwig denied it; David found it quite
interesting as maths—to stop a fight
he turned the topic to a renovation
of their rooms; a year before, in Norway, they
had seen a form of rigorous design,
like a truth-function formed by Wittgenstein
himself—but neither one of them could say
quite what he meant; they passed into a silence
as necessary as it was immense.
Jacob Bacharach 
Ah! As it just so happens, I’ve been spending much of the past week reading Wittgenstein (as a bracing Hegel chaser). I certainly have little idea what any of the pretty diagrams mean.
The poem is lovely, by the way. I’m fairly sure the appearance of denial in the middle was meant to be the double entendre I read it as. I recall that in your old sticks it was the recipes as much as the scathing rants against establishment social democrats that let me wean myself from my blog-addled ways. Thanks.
drun k on a word .. .. .” lingering .. .nor way
Early Wittgenstein, obviously. By the 1920s he had famously ceased to stained the sheets.
Yes.