And Ulysses Missed Finnegan’s Wake:

a Condemnation of the Literati

Dennis Dymek

And Ulysses ?

Ulysses rudely thrust through Hymen’s vulnerable door. Thin crimson fleshy webs of filmy translucent splinters sprinkled everywhere like fairy dust flying through the air and thus he took his place next to the dining guests. So many sources collected in the cauldron swirling about a spicy curry sauce, served up nice and hot, a lascivious mocking turtle soup, his penis-like head popping out from his pliable foreskin shell for all and plenty to eat. The scented select gathered eagerly at the table, saintly spewing witticisms, Divine incongruities from their organized oxymorons.

They prattled on with opioid opinions: reviewers, critics and teachers infested with poetry and fiction, written with limp-wristed gestures and showing off their latest Medusa electric “do’s” of limpid slippery eels wriggling nastily from downed synaptic gaps, feeding greedily from the public trough like pigs downing swill from the Globalist’s Butchers’ hands.

Then came a wonderful funeral, so Irish through and through. Even Atlas was moved to tears, but then at last he finally shrugged and let the coffin fall (oh my!), watching an empty box sliding sideways upside down through Alice’s waiting bunny hole. The mourners gasped, if but for appearance’s sake, but soon recovered with a cocaine snort and a 10-year-old malted Scotch. They couldn’t wait for another jug and a jig that just might lift their blood clotted spirits an inch or two against society’s force of gravitas.

James had hired his favorite London City undertakers, dressed neatly in black and top hat. What a perfect image projecting their pedophile desires and cunning theft from simpletons. Badger took his easy undertaker’s pickings along the crowded sidewalks sooted with rotted Dickensian hovels fetching outrageous rents. The inhabitants like Beijing’s wheezing multitudes looked painted blue, like Boudicca’s Celtic warriors mowed down and raped with Roman swords in revenge for their one great victory and post-cannibalistic feast.

The honoured guests finally filed out of the unfixed shattered door, each asking themselves, “But where was our dear Narcissus? Don’t you just love it when he admiringly looks back at you?”

“Regretfully,” responded J.J., “he attended Finnegan’s Wake instead, who died choking on his own words, an indigestible mix of dried out lentils this Good Friday past.”