“Haines! Which of us did not feel his flesh creep!…Surprise, horror, loathing were depicted on all faces while he eyed them with a ghostly grin.”
– Ulysses, James Joyce
What kind of panting maniac would name a “Joycean Heritage Pub” after these two rat bastards?
Could Stephen have worse roommates than No-Name Haines and Back-Shivving Buck Mulligan? These jagoffs make Rosencrantz and Guildenstern look like Piglet and Eeyore.
And what are the signature cocktails of this pothouse:
The Gay Betrayer? The Ponderous Saxon? The Woful Lunatic?
This pair of pigdogs deserves far, far worse, but a Hemingway Half-Dozen Prose Poem is all our showrunner could gin up in these tricky-dicky times.
It seems history is to blame.
Haines appropriates.
Mulligan discombobulates.
Stephen masturbates.
Stay tuned for more malevolent misnomers.
Same mendacious time, same malfeasant channel.
I’m shocked, shocked to find out censoring is going on here.
A famed Hemingway Half-Dozen Prose Poem has been “declined.” No, not by the New Yorker or the Paris Review or the Trader Joe’s Fearless Flyer. The opus was declined by a Facebook Poetry Group. My lawyer, Doctor Reality asked, “Don’t these people have any idea who you think you are?”
At least they didn’t ban and block me like the Orwellian psycho-sadists over at the James Joyce Facebook Group That Shall Not Be Named. (open case file here)
The Poetry Group administrators provided a due date for revisions but failed to hint at a reason for the declination.
The groundbreaking poem in question:
Joyce’s Tower
Early Hour
Lonely Wallflower
Apparently, avant-garde innovation is too much for these dudes to handle. No doubt, they ascribe to Percy Shelly’s declaration that the poet’s language is “vitally metaphorical.” Fair enough. I hereby submit my revision:
Joyce’s prick:
Massively thick.
Please lick.
Stay tuned for the open-limbed acceptance of this poem.
Same trailblazing time, same trendsetting channel.
Updated: Jul 5, 2023
One of our Hemingway Half-Dozen Prose Poems has been “declined” from a Facebook Poetry Group.
In case it was the radical, new poetic form that was too much for them to handle, we invented a fresh variation on a variation. Many consider Ezra Pound’s verbless, Imagist short-short, “In a Station of the Metro” a Haiku of sorts. In the spirt of Uncle Ezra’s Modernist battle yawp, “Make it new,” we introduce the Ezraku. And yeah, it’s Joycean, of course.
In a Chemists of Dublin
The lemony scent of Sweny’s soaps:
Molly’s yellow cantaloupes.
Stay tuned for more ingenious innovations.
Same delusional time, same grandiose channel.