Read the offending poem performed at the open mic here.
My mother told me she hated it.
The Open Mic Report - June, 2024
I entered the bookstore, a bright-lit place,
With a rhyme to read at the open mic,
Snagged a seat at the table, a tight space,
And then right next to me sat a small tyke.
The MC announced, “We’re family friendly.”
Oh, I was fucked. My rhyme was illicit.
Now I’m fucked twice; no words rhyme with friendly.
Meanwhile, it wasn’t all that explicit,
Just a Joyce-like poke at Virgin Mary,
The MILF I met in the pub last Bloomsday.
My rhyme joked about smashing her cherry.
Between that and this, here comes my doomsday.
Where Art’s forced to be friendly to family,
We’re right on course for culture’s calamity.
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Read the sawed-off sonnet that is the prequel to today’s poem here.
On the Menu at Sweny’s Pharmacy II
Bless Sweny’s Pharmacy for these thy gifts,
And give us this day our daily James Joyce.
The meal’s Ulysses, but the menu shifts.
Whatever you crave, there’s always a choice.
As long as it’s Joyce, Chef Murphy will cook:
German, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish.
Whatever your tongue, he has the right book.
With Murphy in charge, Joyce will not vanish.
Your mouth muscle does many a duty:
Tasting, talking, lapping up, making out,
Versatilities are flings of beauty.
Even though flavors are sensed in your snout.
And don’t sweat it if your tongue lacks the scope,
Work a different muscle and buy some soap.
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The Feast of Bloomsday
What in the Hell is this feast called Bloomsday?
The heavenly day Ulysses takes place.
Bookworms binge Joyce and sing songs and cosplay,
But some taste a spice they pretend is base.
These prigs fall fast for Joyce’s smutty ploy,
And pig out on slutty jambalaya,
But miss out on the truth in his horse of Troy,
That Leopold Bloom’s the new Messiah.
Is this secret menu hidden in code
By vast planetary conspiracy?
It’s right there in the fifteenth episode.
Welcome to Dublin’s Illuminati.
So let the prigs belch their proverbs and psalms.
You know in your gut, they’re all peeping-toms.
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