1. |
Circe
06:42
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Rows of flimsy houses
Rare lamps with rainbow fans
Round ice gondola
Stunted men and women squabble.
Snakes of river fog creep.
From drains, clefts, cesspools, middens
A Steel foundry? Ah, the brigade, of course. South side anyhow. Big Blaze. Might be his house. Beggar’s bush. We’re safe.
London’s burning, London’s burning by!
On fire! On fire!
Kaw kave kankury kake.
I’ll do no such thing. Pig dog and always was ever since he was pupped!
To dare address me! I’ll flog him black and blue in the public streets.
I’ll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel.
He is a well known cuckold.
They appear on a red carpeted staircase adorned with expensive plants.
All are handsome, with valuable metallic faces, wellmade, respectably dressed and
Well conducted,
Speaking five modern languages fluently
He wears a dark mantle and drooping plumed sombrero.
He carries a silver-stringed inlaid dulcimer
A rise on all sides of stagnant fumes.
What was the most revolting piece of obscenity in all your career of crime?
Go the whole hog. Puke it out. Be candid for once.
To have or not to have, that is the question.
The mockery of it! Kinch killed her bitchbody.
She kicked the bucket.
Our great sweet mother!
Epi oinopa ponton.
Spectral mother
Mother, emaciated, rises stark through the floor in leper grey with a wreath
of faded orange blossoms and a torn bridal veil
London's burning, London's burning by!
On fire!
On fire!
Gazing unseeing into Bloom’s eyes he goes on reading, kissing, smiling.
He has a delicate mauve face.
In his free left hand he holds a slim ivory cane with a violet bowknot.
A white lambkin peeps out of his waistcoat pocket
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2. |
Whatness of Allhorse
06:57
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Urbane to comfort them
The quaker librarian purred
Glittereyed, rufous skull
Sought the face,
Bearded amid darkgreener shadow,
Holyeyed.
Art has to reveal to us ideas,
formless spiritual essences.
The supreme question about a work of art
is out of how deep a life does it spring.
This verily is that.
I am the fire upon the altar.
I am the sacrificial butter.
Unsheathe your dagger definitions.
The malestorm
The sumptous murder
The goad of the flesh embittered
Hathaway’s bed
The play begins
A player arrives
It is the ghost, the king and the player is him
To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince, young Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, who has died in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever.
I want to know, or probable that he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion
you are the dispossessed son
I am the murdered father:
your mother is the guilty queen.
Her ghost at least has been laid for ever.
She died, for literature at least,
before she was born.
Horseness is the whatness of allhorse.
The malestorm
The sumptous murder
The goad of the flesh embittered
Hathaway’s bed
The play begins
A player arrives
It is the ghost, the king and the player is him
He carried a memory in his wallet as he trudged to Romeville whistling The girl I left behind me.
If the earthquake did not time it we should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in his form, the cry of hounds, the studded bridle and her blue windows.
That memory, Venus and Adonis, lay in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London. Is Katharine the shrew illfavoured? Hortensio calls her young and beautiful. Do you think the writer of Antony and Cleopatra, a passionate pilgrim, had his eyes in the back of his head that he chose the ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to he withal? Good: he left her and gained the world of men.
But I
Survive
But I, entelechy,
form of forms
am I,
by memory
prize of their fray.
Agenbuyer.
I paid my way
I paid my way
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3. |
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The red labeled bottle on the table
The room in the hotel with the hunting pictures
Yellow streaks on his face.
Death by misadventure
Temporary insanity
The greatest disgrace to have in the family
They say the man who does it is a coward
But it is not for us to judge
More dead for them than for me
More dead for them than for me
A sudden death
The best death
A moment and all is over
Then shovelling them under the cartload doublequick.
Every mortal day a fresh batch
Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpses
Pallbearers, gold reins, requiem mass, firing a volley.
His last lie on the earth in his box.
If little Rudy lived.
If I could see him grown
Hear his voice in the house.
My son. Me in his eyes.
Strange feeling it would be. From me.
I could have helped him on in life.
Would he bleed if a nail cut him in the knocking about?
I suppose the circulation stops.
Still some might ooze from an artery.
It would be better to bury them in crimson
Both ends meet
The coffin dived out of sight
All honeycombed the ground must be
The blood sinking in earth gives new life
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Agenbite Misery New Hampshire
Experimental Blackened Sludge.
Molly
Steve
Leo
linktr.ee/agenbitemisery
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