delivery of Mrs Mina Purefoy (heave offering):
the visit to the disorderly house 


ii.
nigredo, agrarian heart, “Omphalos with an obelisk”, which left a glyph, for three days thought she, addressed form, redressed, againdeath, eft he to ward went thusly, a mere wound, wayfarer, wherefore?, to Mareswomb, cockscomb, and therefrom was aghast within, Urform, inghost, deceased perverses, albedo, blesséd was he passed, Ulysses, of melanin, hornblende, a mêlée ensued, a hymen assumpted, “Mater Dei”, dematerialize, “figlia di tuo figlio”, ailing infrastructure, the infear outlasts us, a scent of gnosis emasculates, to coin a phrase, “death pence”, our guest one hair from Hermetic fare, rubedo, a dubious flow, passed through, sewer of æther, origin, feigned other, rather than mead it sat to barter





of Mrs Bella Cohen, 82 Tyrone street, lower, and subsequent brawl and

dogdays, glovebox, “voglio e non vorrei”, “a pure mare’s nest”, shehole, at whose bequeath?, “slyph’s diadem”, slipped again? (“she gives him the glad eye”), a previous glyph, arise, dogsbreath and gadsfly, at whose behest?, glib wishes arrive, arise ye stitch, “all prick and no pence”, injected inkjet didja?, instead that stench that glottal cry, step aside, Kinch, giver of death and brevity, what’s gotcha?, my creme brulée to your chambermaid, are we aware?, ouioui, and away we go, “hotly to the populace”, you and whose cohort?, she quivers, touché, another theater trick, pauses, diverse guffaws offered, “and his ark was open”, pragmatic pause, “Kaffirs”, and quills of gopherwool, what have you would?, “besides, who saw?”, I





chance medley in Beaver street (Armageddon):
nocturnal perambulation

lapis, “tapis in the circumlocution”, even minutiae lapsed, after feasible exhaustion, ceased, “had to sail on it”, [again, italics mine], seized with extempore, semper fi, or some employ, whatever the case may, but, sound as it may, sound, they say, wait, Greek as it may sound, The Wreck of, rescue?, nuns waylaid, “nonce he was”, off course or, more often, softer than, sound, cause of causes, get up my son, symbol, “embonpoint”, oblivious, as read previously, after publican thoughts, repuddled, or doubled back, “and in a seedy getup”, most coffers sufficed, or, not, none would specify, coy, as they say, could not par force, he was nonetheless, coy, but his tuition, it, his intuition, scattered him, Aztecs, the snotgreen sea
 
 



to and from the cabman's shelter, Butt Bridge (atonement).

belulled, what elements did twain?, “Both indurated by early domestic,” astride the dull unlet abiding arc of instress, “which it subtends”, did them in upperlower sidelanes twain, circuslipped, and howandwith whom were?, estranged, whom less by archaicmeans fell to them dafter excrements than, say, rejuvenated, if seized by gentry?, professioned they triumvirate to a cockedup magnetism, vice versified, both agreed anonymously bestride a bead of undergarment, relief?, jocose relief, and arc’s eventual absolution, soak’s aught to be absorbed, is what is alcoholical as such? and sainted, represented of whipstains, but by such namesake what agreed these scapulae, “the minor was proved by the major”






I had to halfshut my eyes blinded would he come no O tragic heaving either she or me leaves no one leaves did he know me in the box no did he drink did he knowing me O Lord what hope did I have my Hail Mary Im not a horse or an ass am I  what awakened me whose radius whose host of all hosts Im no am I Aram am I Malta am I Jack Joe Harry all gold and glorious he was coming to an end and then running and then he did come down after my hours his and in my dairy my dell my he must have eaten oysters heard me and me saying have we met have we yes O yes weve eaten a whole sheep a shank in my pot and a yard of woolsy his hard demeanor O anything no matter who it was he brought he burst and I saying its raining yes and yes he says your soul you have no soul







Baltimore/Philadelphia/New York
April 2004-October 2005 






Note: "Sedici, Ulysses" by Christophe Cassamasima is appearing in installments. Click here to read more stanzas from the poem. 
 
Bloom

I. Je suis une femme de lettres et je gagne ma vie.
                                                                           ─Colette

All ways a feather: bed your bugs as they bud
Welling roses these sweltering days
Rose roaches blooming by books, near pillows
Blooming by Bloomsday, busting out by June
Busting on Broadway, busting the busts…
            Hey, this is…my bra!
            (Like swallowing feathers, you know,
            dirty feathers.)
            And this is December and over there, Christmas
            We call April Easter cause she makes them march.

Welling roses in Wellington Rolls
Rose roaches blooming by books, near pillows
Rolls with butter, rolls with jam
Roll her over, let’s go hot damn!
Sweltering days as rose roaches bloom
Swilling slaves in rose roaches’ room

Bloom, concrete blossoms!
Bloom, Broadway bottoms!
Bloom! Picks his nose
Bloom! As he grows. . . .

Bed your bugs as they bud, as they breed─what a breed!
Ill-bred, no bread
Dirty cunt’s puking
Just giving me head. . . .

All ways are fettered
Fellated and fucked
For ever and all
But mostly for us


II. Foret sans oiseaux

All ways are feathered.
For rest a bed, 
For the rest, a bed . . . .
Hey, this is. . . .I know; I’ve had them for years.
I’ve had it. Have you? Been had?
Have you a forest? Have you a bed?
Have you a haven?
(Forests of feathers: naked birds shrieking
Bony birds swooping
Burning birds screaming
Descending like hell)

Blooming rose roaches all buds destroyed
Bony birds bleeding, beating, breaking, bled. . .
For rest, a bed, for rest. . .
Fine-feathered slaughter by books, near pillows
Rose roaches breed,
Bleed swiftly and die.


III. On commence par tre dupe, on finit par tre fripon.
                                                                       George Sand

Always the feathers: hi, I’m Molly Bloom;
Blow by my bathroom . . . .
By the window a frozen bird, frozen for weeks,
A weak bird, a dead duck, a gone goose,
A pigeon petered out. . . .

But I’m Molly Bloom, you’ve had me, you know:
Birds are just chirping snakes. 
But I’m Molly Bloom, I’m a mammal,
I have mammaries, see: This is a bust!
I don’t touch dead birds.

This is December, and over there’s Christmas
And Easter will rise to any occasion
For ever and all
For Peter and Paul. . . .
But I’m Molly Bloom, I’m a pagan, you fuck!
Amen
(A man? Where?)

A feather bed for me, a haven for rest,
Pillows for the head, and books for the rest
I need the rest: this is short, where’s the rest?

All ways are fetid
Fellated and fucked
No bird’s no damn good
Until it’s been plucked.
A man? Amen. This is Easter:
Rest that piece.


"Bloom" -- Larissa Shmailo (voice) & Bobby Perfect (composition, guitar, drums)
From Shmailo's CD Exorcism
 
Father of a Ghost (after Stephen Dedalus)

            James Joyce b. February 2
            Hamnet Shakespeare baptized February 2

Father of a ghost, but from the charnel dead!
Truepenny called, but bid his one son read
A woeful bedtime tale. So list: if Hamnet were
A suicide (the rest, what is the rest?); if Shakespeare were
Behorned by Ann (and her way hath will, clear)
And asked the poor young Hamnet now to kill the ‘dulterous peer,
(Perhaps to pour the poison in the porches of his ear?)
Cert, he would read just like a crab, ass backward and in fear:
Hamlet (his twin), ou le Distrait, une Pièce de Père Shakespeare;
Ophelia-like, rosemary clad, made mad with that despair. 
Or … if the canon ‘gainst self-slaughter held fast,
Would he be murdered with all murdered at last?
And, scarred by family the most, 
Who would rise to be his ghost?