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BLOOMSDAY

            At ringend on june sixteenth nineteen hundred and four
                                                                    Molly opens her door
and Literate Leopold plonks his kosher black pudding into her hand
                                                                                       Isn’t it grand
                                                                to be remembered this way?
Walking the streets and sucking the teats of the sow that eats its children
Searching for meat on O’Connel streeet that has the tang of scented urine
The well known literate degenerates
long to have  their hot-dogs stroked by baaaaaaaaaarnacles
whilst sellin’ knick-nack Paddywackery of dear old dirty dumpling
                    How do they walk with her sausages
                                 and inner organs  of beasts and fowls?
their shanks sucked dry of whuskey on Denny’s big breakfast show
               Well feck your arse! With a flame-grilled
                                                                      samuel
                                                                                becket burger
                                                                            and a side order
                                                                      of oscar wilde fries
 
“warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yeilded amid rumpled clothes.
Whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments.
Armpits oniony sweat .
Fishgluey slime.
Feel!
Press!
Crushed!
Sulphur dung of lions
Young!  Young!
 
                In the petri–
                              Pish
                              Pish
                              Pish
                              Dish
spitoon culture
          the illiteraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaati
                                     hold a party
 
               ”I’m a tiny tiny thing
                    Ever flying in the spring
                      Round and round a ringaring
                                                 Long ago I was king
                                       Now I do this kind of thing
                                    On the wing, onnnnnnnn the wing!”
                                                   Bing!
 
Professor Latelate Lateshow Late review
Was talking to ME........        about yew
What do yew think of that aesthetic crew?
                                 The opal hush poets?
                                  The master mystiks?
The wanz thit
      cum to me
         in the sma’ oors
              o the mournin’
                   tae ask aboot
                      plains o consciousness?
 
They’re all Barbers, says he, from the Black Country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down and travelling expenses!
 
In Dublin’s fine city
Where the wine bars are pretty
You can’t find an ashtray
You must smoke alone.
 
                                                                                 Isn’t it grand
                                                              To be remembered this way
Walking the streets and sucking the teats of the sow that eats its children?
 
 
 
 
 
 
johnny
15th o’june 2004
Otras obras de John Soltys...



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