My Own Private Ulysses: Bloom is Our Kettle

In the Modernist spirit of improvisation and innovation, not to mention versification and alliteration, we provide the sonnetfication of a previous prose piece. The original essay left the Joyceverse no choice but to pretend it did not exist. Read the suppressed essay here.
“He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.”
– Ulysses, James Joyce
Bloom is Our Kettle
Bloom’s double is his own kitchen kettle,
“It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out.”
Cast-iron, both made of equal mettle,
Heated, hard-up, throughout the day’s long route.
Bloom’s clad in black, well-dressed for death this day.
But poor Paddy Dignam’s surprise demise
Could never keep Bloom’s blazing gaze at bay.
The femme form he will ever idolize.
But Bloom’s womanly, Doc Dixon maintained.
And Gerty’s flirty flash his seed did spill.
Still, in Bella’s brothel his spout sustained.
Bloom has no need for a little blue pill.
My cracked-glass kettle pouts, limp-wired, and wrecked.
My own double’s spout stands short of erect.
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Same ignored time, same unadorned channel.
Poor Dignam!