“Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. Twelve. I’m thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death’s number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn’t in the chapel, that I’ll swear.
What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become invisible. Good Lord, what became of him?”
– Ulysses, James Joyce
My Own Private Man in the Macintosh
Oh, Hell no, not him, not again, good gosh,
The Whisper Man who talks below his breath,
He’s my own private Man in the Macintosh.
The Ace of Spades, Dream’s Sister, Mr. Death.
And damn, he’s handsome, and he’s got panache,
So well-dressed, suit’s bespoke, not off the shelf,
Nothing like Hellish Hieronymus Bosch,
And never really introduced himself.
The Forty-Foot, The Shakespeare, Davy Byrne’s,
He’s everywhere on Bloomsdays, all alone,
And none recall him. It’s my soul he yearns!
Like Robert Redford in The Twilight Zone.
I don’t care he’s the Reaper they call Grim.
Next time I see him, I just might kill him.
Stay tuned for more psychotic sonnets.
Same lunatic time, same insane channel.
Today’s Ezraku:
In the Pages of the Bloomsday Journal
Written words for the wasteland of Joyceana:
From Heaven or Hell, your choice of manna.
Updated: Nov 23
Today’s Ezraku inspired by Senan Molony’s “Helen of Joyce.”
What the Hell’s an Ezraku? Answer here.
“Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.”
In Stephen’s Mixed Metaphor of Mulligan
Face, equine in length; hued hair like pale oak:
Wooden horse, Troy’s towers in flame and smoke.