(Oliver Flitcroft of the Volta Theatre Co.)
My Own Private Ulysses:
To Buck Or Not To Buck
I want to be the Buck for Bloomsday next.
Oh, what a dream to not give any fucks
And mock it all, completely unperplexed.
There better not be any other Bucks
To block my cocky walk ‘round Dublin town,
While swinging freely underneath this robe.
Is pendulum too long a common noun
For my improper little languid lobe?
Wait, what about the real-life Gogarty?
You’re giving credence to the Joyced-up myth;
He’d say, “It ain’t me!” like John Fogerty,
“Unfortunately, son, I plead the fifth.”
The buck stops here. This ‘real-life’ you speak of,
Way up, between each cheek, give it a shove.
Trojan Horse Club
You scholars need to blinker Joyce’s stead
By binding her with Cyclopy, blind eye,
And ogling Odyssey as if it’s creed
While hiding Homer’s A-side. Do tell why.
My God! What have you done, you goddamned fool!
By Stuart Gilbert we do bore our class.
His Odyssey’s the one true holy rule!
Why jam this heresy way up our ass?
What is the title of this tour de force:
The man who won the war. Your eyes have missed
The A-side that’s inside this Trojan Horse.
On paper, episode names don’t exist.
The gift of insight’s in “Helen of Joyce.”
Scales felled might feel like Hell, but sight’s a choice.
Joycespearean Sonnet 138
When preppy Gerty declares she is pure,
I must beware, how brilliant her disguise.
I’m snared between her double-dare allure.
Good Lord, grant me a tour between her thighs!
She conceives me as gentleman, genteel.
And deceives me to believe that’s the truth.
So now I’m mental! Her couture’s my ordeal,
And there’s one cure, in truth, it’s quite uncouth.
While she projects her style as prim and chaste,
Commands belief, and teases with a peek,
She’s two: up front, strait-laced; down low, debased,
Love’s war she’s won. This girl’s a super freak.
Medusa-Venus? Or Madonna-Whore?
She’s my penis flytrap, oh please, squeeze me more.
Stay tuned for more obsessing sonnets.
Same teasing time, same charming-ed channel.