My Own Private Ulysses: ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP

I claimed the Daughters’ of Erin twelve prayers       

Entitle the Odyssey episodes.                          

A voice said nope, one of those prickly pears,             

With Wandering Soap, your weak claim implodes.        

Bloom’s the wanderer. Does this need proving?         

Greek by Joyce, the Jew by bigoty Buck.               

And that lemon soap never stops moving                

‘Round Bloom’s pockets. Their bond isn’t by luck.

But your soap’s gone from the library scene.          

Your theory’s a product of derangement.               

Sure, but Erin’s Daughters polished it clean,         

With their keen retrospective arrangement.            

Joyce did not splatter the wall with flung shit.      

He made puzzles. We make the pieces fit.

Stay tuned for more spotless sonnets.

Same tidy time, same clean channel.

My Own Private Ulysses: Ulysses in Fourteen Lines

James Joyce wrote the greatest novel ever.            

A quarter million words depict one day,               

So Bloomsday will be observed forever.           

Named for Leopold Bloom, who makes his way,           

Through old Dublin on the sixteenth of June,               

While his wife Molly conceives an affair              

And calls Bloom Poldy, like he’s a buffoon.           

We hear Bloom’s thoughts which wander everywhere,     

Past and future, many a fancy flight.                 

Our hero seeks love anywhere he can:                   

Gerty’s beach and Bella’s whorehouse at night.        

Bloom is literature’s most complete man.              

Stephen, too, is a lead in Joyce’s cast.         

But time’s short, that’s a whole other podcast.

Stay tuned for more oversimplification sonnets.

Same terse time, same condensed channel. 

My Own Private Ulysses: Doctor Reality’s Prudent Advice

Doctor Reality’s prudent advice:                       

Your goal is to be banned from everywhere!            

But I write light verse, I try to be nice.            

Not dark like Ginsberg’s Howl. I wouldn’t dare.       

You fool! Art is war. It’s time to attack.            

But I want to be liked and included.                  

By this modern-day Virginia Woolf pack?               

You’re a damn Joyce-head. Don’t be deluded!           

But I wish to be published. I’m past due.             

Ha! They bark in public, but in their heart,          

They whimper and whine with envy of you.              

Like Ginny did Joyce, they’ll tear you apart.         

But I wonder, where’s my Sylvia Beach?           

Dude! You’re already screwed, just make them screech.

Stay tuned for more simpering sonnets.

Same self-pitying time, same self-esteemless channel.