My Own Private Ulysses: If Books Could Kill

If Books Could Kill

What if this world were flipped and books could kill? 

For real, like Monty Python’s deadly joke,            

That left the Hun laughing till he lay still,           

Man’s one-sided war would go up in smoke.                   

From old ashes, arises a killer,                       

Whose name’s the same as Rome’s Odysseus.        

Atilla, Genghis, every blood spiller,                       

All rolled into one Phoenix Proteus.                        

Ulysses’ hydra-headed arts of war:

Laugh and riddles, PSYOPS, vulgarity

All marshalled, so this invincible corp.

Kills barbarity with hilarity.

It would be such a sweet and fitting sight:      

Brave book burners, for once, in a fair fight.

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Same trench time, same charred channel.

My Own Private Ulysses: WTF is an Initialism?

K.M.R.I.A.

“He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.”

               - Ulysses, James Joyce

WTF is an Initialism?

‘Useless word created to distinguish                   

initials from acronyms,’ UD states.                    

Such simple answers we must extinguish.                     

So, FU Urban Dict., crude reprobates.                  

Both MILF and GILF are proper acronyms.               

DTF’s a prim initialism.                               

This ain’t hard. At best, they’re soft synonyms.      

So, between them, let’s thicken the schism.      

He FUBARed his class, when old Nabokov                

Told, “You may peruse with a skimming eye…”           

Joyce’s Ulysses’ new newsy jerkoff.                    

You fell flaccid AF, Vlad, FYI.                        

When wooing words, don’t ease up and streamline.

Stiffen your pine, go hard past the headline.

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Same tutorial time, same curricular channel.

My Own Private Ulysses: The Third Man With Two Brains

The Third Man With Two Brains

My left-brain hates love, but loves triangles.

It sees one in lines by Shakespeare the Bard.

Will’s two loves, gal and pal, seize their angles

That will fuzz up his right mind. Math is hard.

James Joyce too, streams a wrong trilateral:

Plain old Bloom, obtuse Molly, a cute Stephen.

Left flawed, this threesome seems – collateral

Of life’s odds - planes and seamlines uneven.

Within all four lines of these three quatrains,

Wet with the hard sea of geometry,

I am left soft and unwhett. My right-brain's

Waves are numb to numbers; sums it won’t see.

So, add me to Will and Joyce for a new three,

So fuzzy math will stream exponentially.

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Same trigonal time, same cranial channel.