My Own Private Ulysses: WTF is an Initialism?

K.M.R.I.A.

“He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.”

               - Ulysses, James Joyce

WTF is an Initialism?

‘Useless word created to distinguish                   

initials from acronyms,’ UD states.                    

Such simple answers we must extinguish.                     

So, FU Urban Dict., crude reprobates.                  

Both MILF and GILF are proper acronyms.               

DTF’s a prim initialism.                               

This ain’t hard. At best, they’re soft synonyms.      

So, between them, let’s thicken the schism.      

He FUBARed his class, when old Nabokov                

Told, “You may peruse with a skimming eye…”           

Joyce’s Ulysses’ new newsy jerkoff.                    

You fell flaccid AF, Vlad, FYI.                        

When wooing words, don’t ease up and streamline.

Stiffen your pine, go hard past the headline.

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My Own Private Ulysses: The Third Man With Two Brains

The Third Man With Two Brains

My left-brain hates love, but loves triangles.

It sees one in lines by Shakespeare the Bard.

Will’s two loves, gal and pal, seize their angles

That will fuzz up his right mind. Math is hard.

James Joyce too, streams a wrong trilateral:

Plain old Bloom, obtuse Molly, a cute Stephen.

Left flawed, this threesome seems – collateral

Of life’s odds - planes and seamlines uneven.

Within all four lines of these three quatrains,

Wet with the hard sea of geometry,

I am left soft and unwhett. My right-brain's

Waves are numb to numbers; sums it won’t see.

So, add me to Will and Joyce for a new three,

So fuzzy math will stream exponentially.

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My Own Private Ulysses: The Apex Sonneteer

The Apex Sonneteer

Why do I punch down on punks like james joyce,

And his weak, beta-at-best, book of bloom?       

My innate primacy leaves me no choice; 

Alpha Dogs always deliver the boom.         

I toy with rhymes like what’s-his-face, the bard.

Pretty pathetic, his pencil-neck verse.          

He’s just a plebe, I’m Praetorian Guard,

And He-Man Master of this Universe.

I’ll mansplain: socrates is to plato        

To aristotle to alex the great              

And ithaca’s king to each othello

On to bloom. None can match what I create.

So, look on my might. I’m a Force Majeure!

Just ignore slight delusions of my grandeur.   

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