My Own Private Ulysses: A Waking Nightmare
“They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell. He will never capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet.”
- Ulysses, James Joyce
Today’s very scary sonnet:
A Waking Nightmare
Doc Reality’s latest reading task:
James Joyce’s final curse, Finnegans Wake.
But in that moon shadow I fear to bask,
Sooner face vampires without wooden stake.
Pandemonium, pendulums and pits
Crawling with creepy insect anagrams,
That mask red deathly sins mankind commits
Like Lecter’s in The Silence of the Lambs.
The Wake’s dark nightness will surely damn me.
Treats as tricky as Eden’s walking snake,
More fearful than the Tyger’s symmetry.
Doc! Spare me this terror for my soul’s sake!
So, to Ulysses’ daylight sun I’ll scram,
And not ensnared by Joyce’s pentagram.
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