My Own Private Ulysses: On the Menu at Sweny’s Pharmacy II

Read the sawed-off sonnet that is the prequel to today’s poem here.

On the Menu at Sweny’s Pharmacy II

Bless Sweny’s Pharmacy for these thy gifts,           

And give us this day our daily James Joyce.            

The meal’s Ulysses, but the menu shifts.              

Whatever you crave, there’s always a choice.          

As long as it’s Joyce, Chef Murphy will cook:         

German, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish.                  

Whatever your tongue, he has the right book.          

With Murphy in charge, Joyce will not vanish.         

Your mouth muscle does many a duty:                    

Tasting, talking, lapping up, making out,             

Versatilities are flings of beauty.                    

Even though flavors are sensed in your snout.         

And don’t sweat it if your tongue lacks the scope,    

Work a different muscle and buy some soap.  

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My Own Private Bloomsday: The Feast of Bloomsday

The Feast of Bloomsday

What in the Hell is this feast called Bloomsday?

The heavenly day Ulysses takes place.

Bookworms binge Joyce and sing songs and cosplay,

But some taste a spice they pretend is base.

These prigs fall fast for Joyce’s smutty ploy,

And pig out on slutty jambalaya,  

But miss out on the truth in his horse of Troy,

That Leopold Bloom’s the new Messiah.  

Is this secret menu hidden in code

By vast planetary conspiracy?

It’s right there in the fifteenth episode.  

Welcome to Dublin’s Illuminati.   

So let the prigs belch their proverbs and psalms.

You know in your gut, they’re all Peeping Toms.

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My Own Private Ulysses: A Bloomsday Annunciation

A Bloomsday Annunciation

They entered Davy Byrne’s, a moral pub,

Four grannies, the Golden Girls of Bloomsday,

Nothing more than a cute little book club.

Then this Annunciation, one did say,

“Call me Mary,” she winked, “Virgin Mary.”

Sun-bright eyes, full-moon teeth, pixie haircut

Platinum Blondie like Debbie Harry.

Blessed was the fruitful curve of her butt.

I’m your Blazes Boylan, your Holy Ghost.

Come and grace my poetry recital,      

Then lay back, relax, and grab your bedpost,

And I’ll strip you of your clothes, and your title.

Pray for this Immaculate Conception.

Now and at the hour of erection.

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