
Wandering Through Used Books
Merchants’ Arch has a bookshop down below:
Lenehan links M’Coy by the elbow
After he calls old Bloom, Leopoldo.
Stephen Dedalus, too, is on the go
Past faded prints in Clohissey’s window.
Then halts at a bookcart on Bedford Row,
Recalls himself Stephano Dedalo,
Pawned school prizes: alumno optimo
Tattered pages of memory’s echo.
“How to win a woman’s love,” reads Stephano.
Say the following thrice, “Se el yilo
Nebrakada femininum! Amor me solo!”
Yo, Jimbo, so what is the dillio?
Do used books bestow an ultimate O?
Or do you simply prefer Italiano?
Va bene, Giacomo. Buongiorno!

In the Modernist spirit of improvisation and innovation, not to mention versification and alliteration, we provide the sonnetfication of a previous prose piece. The original essay left the Joyceverse no choice but to pretend it did not exist. Read the suppressed essay here.
“He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.”
– Ulysses, James Joyce
Bloom is Our Kettle
Bloom’s double is his own kitchen kettle,
“It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.”
Cast-iron, both made of equal mettle,
Heated, hard-up, throughout the day’s long route.
Bloom’s clad in black, well-dressed for death this day.
But poor Paddy Dignam’s surprise demise
Could never keep Bloom’s blazing gaze at bay.
The femme form he will ever idolize.
But Bloom’s womanly, Doc Dixon maintained.
And Gerty’s flirty flash his seed did spill.
Still, in Bella’s brothel his spout sustained.
Bloom has no need for a little blue pill.
My cracked-glass kettle pouts, limp-wired, and wrecked.
My own double’s spout stands short of erect.
Subscribe and stay tuned for more sonnetfications.
Same ignored time, same unadorned channel.

"She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat’s udder. The warmth of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she poured.
A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread.
—Who was the letter from? he asked."
— Ulysses, James Joyce
Today’s Ezraku:
The Jeer in the Ear of Bloom
Jingle of invisible brass under my bed:
Tingle of risible ass-plunder, my dread.