Ode to Joyce, that ephemeral beauty, those dark brown Galway eyes, unbeknownst to possess the incandescent flame of genius, Oh, Lucia, muse without a voice, locked inside those walls made of your father's fame,
She always treated being middle class like it was an affliction, a woman in terminal decay, suffocated by coventions and what not, He was a faceless beaurocrat, sitting at his desk, forever clicking the mouse,
In depth, plummet, a beautiful sum it, Death in a stable, poor Mary was unable, Israel is the cunt of the world, and it all unfolds in my geni-arse hands, a loud and abrupt, cantankerous fart, What is art?