- May 29, 2024
The Citizen
I met the Nameless One outside the pub,
He said- “The giant in Barney Kiernan’s
Stands for Erin, his own exclusive club.
He’s mighty, too vast are his dimensions.
His blazing breath scolds until you smolder
Like a slagheap, his blistering lips lie
On a great gob that could gulp a boulder.
But his sight’s neared, winked by his small cold eye.
From his barstool, these antique words he drops:
‘I’m your Savior, my name is Citizen!
Son of the sea god, I am the cyclops!
Who let them in? These foreigners are sin!’”
But on-site of that Bloomsday collision
Bloom won the day with his greater vision.
Stay tuned for more Shelleyesque sonnets.
Same Percy time, same Bysshey channel.
Ulysses Edition Questions
Why the mouth foam over which edition?
What zealot made this a competition?
Do they bow to Blakean tradition?
And think friendship lies in opposition?
Or is this lust for incineration?
Could they truly crave book-conflagration?
Is their secret urge self-immolation?
Or ice-cold total annihilation?
Do they prance down the road to perdition?
Masking priggery as erudition?
What’s next with these prudes? Prohibition?
Or call some smart-ass semiotician?
How to end this Joycean Inquisition?
Just embrace the joys of juxtaposition.
- May 15, 2024
Updated: Nov 23, 2025
On James Joyce. 2024
What needs James Joyce for these reheated clones,
The belabored rhymes and cold homophones,
Or, that his name and fame should be undid
By self-appointing who crave to forbid?
Master of the modern, breaker of frame,
What needs you such poor players of your game?
That in their blunder and befuddlement,
Your immortality you did cement.
For wile, I push my dainty dessert cart,
Your minced riddles humble every pie chart.
Do they believe your art’s gobbledygook,
The most impressive feast ever to cook?
They taste then lie, when as this they should try,
Compliment the chef, as did Satan’s guy.