Ulysses

I left the Church of Rome. Read the Priest, the Woman and the Confessional. Penrose. Flipperty Jippert. He wriggles. Woman, undoing with sweet pudor her belt of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man’s lingam. Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat. Woman shows joy and covers herself with featherskins. Man loves her yoni fiercely with big lingam, the stiff one. He cries. Coactus volui. Then giddy woman will run about. Strong man grapses woman’s wrist. Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman’s fat yadgana. He chases his tail. Piffpaff! Popo! He stops, sneezes. Pchp! He worries his butt. Prrrrrht! Lynch I hope you gave the good father a penance. Nine glorias for shooting a bishop. Zoe Spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils. He couldn’t get a connection. Only, you know, sensation. A dry rush. Bloom Poor man! Zoe Lightly. Only for what happened him. Bloom How? Virag A diabolic rictus of black luminosity contracting his visage, cranes his scraggyneck forward. He lifts a mooncalf nozzle and howls. Verfluchte Goim! He had a father, forty fathers. He never existed. Pig God! He had two left feet. He was Judas Iacchias, a Lybian eunuch, the pope’s bastard. He leans out on tortured forepaws, elbows bent rigid, his eye agonising in his flat skullneck and yelps over the mute world. A son of a whore. Apocalypse. Kitty And Mary Shortall that was in the lock with the pox she got from Jimmy Pidgeon in the blue caps had a child off him that couldn’t swallow and was smothered with the convulsions in the mattress and we all subscribed for the funeral. Philip Drunk Gravely. Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position, Philippe? Philip Sober Gaily. C’était le sacré pigeon, Philippe. Kitty unpins her hat and sets it down calmly, patting her henna hair. And a prettier, a daintier head of winsome curls was never seen on a whore’s shoulders. Lynch puts on her hat. She whips it off. Lynch Laughs. And to such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. Florry Nods. Locomotor ataxy. Zoe Gaily. O, my dictionary. Lynch Three wise virgins. Virag Agueshaken, profuse yellow spawn foaming over his bony epileptic lips. She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orange flower. Panther, the Roman centurion, polluted her with his genitories. He sticks out a flickering phosphorescent scorpion tongue, his hand on his fork. Messiah! He burst her tympanum. With gibbering baboon’s cries he jerks his hips in the cynical spasm. Hik! Hek! Hak! Hok! Huk! Kok! Kuk! Ben Jumbo Dollard, rubicund, musclebound, hairynostrilled, hugebearded, cabbageeared, shaggychested, shockmaned, fatpapped, stands forth, his loins and genitals tightened into a pair of black bathing bagslops. Ben Dollard Nakkering castanet bones in his huge padded paws, yodels jovially in base barreltone. When love absorbs my ardent soul. The virgins, Nurse Callan and Nurse Quigley, burst through the ringkeepers and the ropes and mob him with open arms. The Virgins Gushingly. Big Ben! Ben MacChree! A Voice Hold that fellow with the bad breeches. Ben Dollard Smites his thigh in abundant laughter. Hold him now. Henry Caressing on his breast a severed female head, murmurs. Thine heart, mine love. He plucks his lutestrings. When first I saw⁠ ⁠… Virag Sloughing his skins, his multitudinous plumage moulting. Rats! He yawns, showing a coalblack throat and closes his jaws by an upward push of his parchment roll. After having said which I took my departure. Farewell. Fare thee well. Dreck! Henry Flower combs his moustache and beard rapidly with a pocketcomb and gives a cow’s lick to his hair. Steered by his rapier, he glides to the door, his wild harp slung behind him. Virag reaches the door in two ungainly stilthops, his tail cocked, and deftly claps sideways on the wall a pusyellow flybill, butting it with his head. The Flybill K. 11. post no bills. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks. Henry All is lost now. Virag unscrews his head in a trice and holds it under his arm. Virag’s Head Quack! Exeunt severally. Stephen Over his shoulder to Zoe. You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the protestant error. But beware Antisthenes, the dog sage, and the last end of Arius Heresiarchus. The agony in the closet. Lynch All one and the same God to her. Stephen Devoutly. And Sovereign Lord of all things. Florry To Stephen. I’m sure you are a spoiled priest. Or a monk. Lynch He is. A cardinal’s son. Stephen Cardinal sin. Monks of the screw. His Eminence, Simon Stephen Cardinal Dedalus, Primate of all Ireland, appears in the doorway, dressed in red soutane, sandals and socks. Seven dwarf simian acolytes, also in red, cardinal sins, uphold his train, peeping under it. He wears a battered silk hat sideways on his head. His thumbs are stuck in his armpits and his palms outspread. Round his neck hangs a rosary of corks ending on his breast in a corkscrew cross. Releasing his thumbs, he invokes grace from on high with large wave gestures and proclaims with bloated pomp. The Cardinal

Conservio lies captured
He lies in the lowest dungeon
With manacles and chains around his limbs
Weighing upwards of three tons.

He looks at all for a moment, his right eye closed tight, his left cheek puffed out. Then, unable to repress his merriment, he rocks to and fro, arms akimbo, and sings with broad rollicking humour.

O, the poor little fellow
Hi‑hi‑hi‑hi‑his legs they were yellow
He was plump, fat and heavy and brisk as a snake
But some bloody savage
To graize his white cabbage
He murdered Nell Flaherty’s duckloving drake.

A multitude of midges swarms over his robe. He scratches himself with crossed arms at his ribs, grimacing, and exclaims.

I’m suffering the agony of the damned. By the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not unanimous. If they were they’d walk me off the