The Next Objectivists is a collective of writers that holds workshops at Mess Hall, a venue in Chicago's Rogers Park neighborhood -- to "chart a poetics of the outsidereal by reading, writing, discussing & eating & drinking our way through a variety of texts." On June 14th The Next Objectivists collaborated with the Borderbend Arts Collective to present a workshop about Ulysses, with a focus on the "Eumaeus" episode

During this Next Objectivists workshop, participants read and wrote through passages of "Eumaeus." Dan Godston facilitated a writing activity during which people used approaches and strategies developed by Gertrude Stein, the Surrealists, Oulipo and Gnoetry to "write through" the "Eumaeus" of Ulysses.

Thanks to the Next Objectivists for being part of "Bloomsday 2012 & Ulysses' 90th"!

Eumaeus Exquisite Corpse                 by the Next Objectivists

Who bleached the false-messenger?
Try it. You may mention my name.

What kind of cake would you die for?
I seen a crocodile bite a fluke of an anchor same as I chew that quid.

When does the sun rise next week?
Look here. Here they are. A friend of mine sent me.

Why synthesize when you could analyze? 
My little woman’s down there. She’s waiting for me, I know. For England, home and beauty.

Why am I so surreal just now?
We woke this morning at seven o’clock.

What is the true meaning of resurrection?
He toured the wide world with Hengler’s Royal Circus.

What the hell are you doing with your life?
I seen him shoot two eggs off two bottles at fifty yards over his shoulder.

If the brown cow ate black grass what color would his dung be?
Not as much as a farthing to purchase a night’s lodging.

Who invests in vacation homes and makes lots of cash?
Sounds are impostures, Stephen said after a pause of some little time, like names.

What time is it?
A beautiful language. I mean for singing purposes.

To whom was the package sent?
A few broken biscuits were all the result of his investigation.

What name would you never screw?
The fill the ear of a cow elephant. 

Note: The second line of each couplet is taken from the "Eumaeus" section of Ulysses.

"N + 7" by Rey Esco, Adrianne Dodt and Toby Altman

A gifted manila mr bloom said of mr. daedalus senior in more respects than one in the born racket if there ever was one he takes great pricker quite legitimately out of you you could go back perhaps he hazzarded still thinking of the very unpleasant scaup at West Glamorgan rove terminal when it was perfectly evident that the other twit mull that is and that English toupe Friday of his who eventually euchred their third commuter, were patently trying as if the whole bally state socialism belonged to them to give Steven the slime mold in the confrere

"Joyce’s Ulysses, a gurgling noise" by Gene Tanta

brushed up orthodox beverage pump
off the reel hardly a stone 
ways and means in the shape
after some soap-sudsy hands
livery stables round the corner
by some fellows a kind of whistle
nothing for it but to foot it by circumstance
as the temperature happened 
as the tramway apropos the main entrance  
of the morgue in due course 
acting as the vidius palpable and indispensible 
sober companion of the ill-famed death-trap 
for every contingency the need for an accident-solicitor
cordially disliked to swear upon a hat
and to the health of fast women drunk with
season to us both
led to trouble grating the staff of life
awaiting news from abroad
wholesale waters duly arrived with an axe
surplus steam and good Irish bacon with little account of crime
a bit peeved but never the less an admiral 
the coal scene the confidence trick
on the scaffold high snapping at the bone

Eumaeus Gnoetry

Ay, ay or no.  To
think of him, became in due
course.  And so on the
prowl evidently under
the mangle devouring
a mess of eggshells
and charred fish heads and bones on
a par with the mind.

Texts: James Joyce, Eumaeus

A great deal of change out of
the missive which made him
nourish some
suspicions of
our skipper's
bricks disguised.  To
think of him and his gestures
being also clumsy as
it so happened, he had not
but the cream
of the pair of greenish
goggles which he beat a
retreat to
his main view.  To
seek misfortune, weather.

Texts: James Joyce, Eumaeus

But as I chew that quid.  You know I would
to a step in the
passage and we are held up to tally
with the show girl, as he was and
a large crowd had assembled to see the
greatest danger of
the lip: what's bred in the sweeper car or
you might just as well as a born
raconteur if ever there was a bit
like that from the house
will be in on it.  She put the first of
every chorus fluff that off.

Texts:  James Joyce, Eumaeus; Kenneth McGaffey, The Sorrows of a Show Girl

That was
first to
rise from
his hat
at the, for
the young man
he was
then, he had
heard not
so long as
chew that

Texts:  James Joyce, Eumaeus

Still no matter what
you say.  To
which sounded rather
a far cry.
I shouldn't think that
is, and then,
when the husband was
a fact the
weeklies, addicted
to stephen.

Texts: James Joyce, Eumaeus

The husband was a ship.  The sailor said,
in fact.  The sailor.  Seeing that the man
in his affections.  By the name, the name,
the name, the sailor said, in fact.  Across
the world, the sailor.  That's a matter of
a choice concoction labelled coffee on
the matter of a literary cove
in his affections.  So, in it.  Tattoo,
the sacred music of the thing.  Tattoo,
the keeper said, europa point, the end.
A figure of the.  At the lowest, near
the end.  The husband was a jew.  The mind.

Texts: James Joyce, Eumaeus

To read more Eumaeus Gnoetry, click on the "Eumaeus Gnoetry" tag on the right of this page.

Jake Crane, Creole Sue,
Dove Campbell, the diffusion
of daybreak, down, for

instance there was nothing for
you. Prove that gospel. O well

connected. The joy,
the feel of her lord that she
used to overhear.

She used to say a
word of it out of plumb. From
me, he says? At a

wake when the torrid and the
nun of that I am here to

read a name?  Were there
obverse meditations of

People looking up
at the exertion of the
spine. Better get this

job over quick.  In the dark
chords. Her grave is over here:

the world. Here, sir: the
slow music. You see most of
the dark land they heard.

Is there any... no
trouble I expect. Mr.
Bloom promptly did as

suggested and removed the
saucepan to the blessed: looked at

his feet. Heart to kneel.
His first puff violently
towards the tombstones.

O, the eloquent
fact remained that morning. Then
he murmured then with

force like men. All these rocks with
lines and scars and letters. From

his rank and fame that
tempted thee, and in the past
day, the ghosts of him.

A series of renga created with Gnoetry0.2's statistical analysis of Ulysses, as facilitated by end-user Eric Elshtain.

Exit Bloom. "I'm just running round to Collis and
Ward's and then complete oblivion because
it wasn't broken already."
Kitty: warm. He crossed to the host, "My word," he
said. "A fair amount of money advanced on note
of banishment, banishment from home.  I am

not a red bank oysters.  So I would, where he called
me 'sir.' Look for some clues. Hot and heavy in
the world. Fried everything. Here's this
afternoon. Find damn all else they are masked, with
head covered," sighing. "In here tonight. Glowing wine
on his high horse about the mistake in the

habit of mind in the apocalypse. But I
always looks back on the sly. Take one of his
nibs till the first nail in his eyes
found the Lord has spoken to, touching the much
respected clerk of the bunch though you wouldn't do
anything at all," a silent roar. "What is

home without potted meat?" Dilly followed quickly
and got off lightly with illnesses compared.
A few times in the garden? Out
of it. To which professional status his
rescue of fallen women off the greater bulk
of the screw? Two pieces of jungle meat. Out

of sight, eased himself closer at hand, no doubt, but
lightly! "Know what death is the cause of many
abuses though not in hell. Out
on the bed. Judge Barton, I suppose? Why did
he come? Fifteen children he has anyway. Out
here one foggy evening to look. I mean when

we lived in London somewhere." Safe in a teacup
tea, choking in action. Fields of liver of
sulphur. No families themselves
to overhear. Under a grey sweet mother?
Buck Mulligan bent down to her other things, too
sweet to be ducked in the middle of town.

James Joyce, Ulysses as statistically analysed by
Gnoetry0.2; end-user Eric Elshtain found arguments for quotation mark insertions.
Molly told me.  I understand, but don't
keep me waiting, while feeling
his lips, as he could spin those yarns for hours.  Molly in Citron's
Saint Kevin's parade.  She answered, going out.  I could
produce a bottle?  He howled, without looking up: and at
the tender mercy of God
is love pasted round there?  Make
a scrap picnic.  Tell you.  There's a bloody chance.  Old monks, the blond girl
in Meath Street that night in

the time of the stomach.  I will.  That's right, says Alf.  Robert
Emmet was buried here, Stephen said, frowning: I
won't trespass on your shift.  Dark dome received, reverbed.  I seen a fair
face for me?  Quietly, stumbling
a little serious,
equanimity.  Can't he
hear the inquest.  To catch rattlesnakes.
Heavy greasy smell there always
is in fashion.  Bloom: I am old

furniture.  Write me a long laugh down his
nose and promised him the card with
the baby.  Armed heroes spring up from the house of the
erudite and certainly by reason of change out
of this intermittent and increasingly conveyed from
the cemetery, Martin Cunningham began to shave
in its free state, Saint Patrick's, George's and Gay Malahide.  Make
room for your book, eh?  Wise child that
knows.  While you have no cities nor no wealth: our

lives.  Mr. Bloom asked, looking down on their striped petticoats, in
their habitual position clamped by three, he had learned of the
trees of the other so he was painting the landscape with his
heavy hand took his eyes to hear the voice of that and,
clinging to animals.  Bald pat at a certain
extent under the ground till the matter?  The flood.  I paid
the rent.  Young stephen what was it, they listened feeling that flow
endearing flow over them with your waters,
cows lowing, the scheme fell through the thousand virgins.

This poem was composed in collaboration with Gnoetry0.2, a poetry-generating software developed by Jon Trowbridge.  The software statistically analysed Ulysses, and the end-user, Eric Elshtain, made edits within the parameters of the software itself.  For more information on Gnoetry and other computer-generated poetry programs go here.