Ulysses - History is a nightmare

experimental jazz rap, dark art rock, jazz fusion

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Out past the mouth of the Liffey,
Sandymount Strand draws its long, wet syllables,
sand writing, surf erasing,
boots taking the lesson in salt.
Four o’clock is a nail in the afternoon.
Boylan at 4 o’clock —
a clock-hand, a knock, a bright invasive pulse.
Molly in the room, changing air into skin,
while I pace the city’s grammar,
half-ash, half-echo, half-thrown away.

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
(hear me)
Wake me through the gulls, through the brine, through the ache,
through the city’s wet synapses, wake me.
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
(so close)
The clock keeps tearing its seam in the day,
and I am still inside it... still inside it...

I drift past the butcher’s, past the tramwired spine of the street,
past parcels, pork, pamphlets, pensioners, priors,
past the whole soft machinery of Dublin in rain.
Metempsychosis —
the word flips, finlike, in the mind,
a doctrine, a joke, a door that won’t stay shut,
spilling into chapel-light, shop-window light,
into the question of what comes after flesh
when flesh keeps talking.
Bloom’s on the move, all errands and inward weather,
widower, wanderer, advert man, listener.
A hat brim, a hoofbeat of thought, a pocket of kindness,
a private republic of appetites and grief.
Boylan at 4 o’clock —
that phrase keeps tapping the teeth,
an appointment made of heat and humiliation,
a name with polished brass on the knuckles of time.
I pass the offices, the pubs, the bridgework,
the paper boys, the salt-stiff laundry,
the city chewing its noon into another sort of no.

June 16, 1904.
A date, yes — but also a tide-mark.
A single Dublin day swollen with crossings,
father and son, lover and stranger,
the dead and the living traded like coins.
Under the domestic clatter,
under the advertisements, the sausages, the soot,
there’s a soul trying to hear itself think.
I don’t want a clean myth.
I want the bruise, the butter, the bill,
the ferry of the mind taking on water.
(hear me)

History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
(awaken me)
Wake me through the gulls, through the brine, through the ache,
through the tower, through the strand, through the body that shakes.
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.
(yes, yes)
And the clock keeps burning its circle away,
and I am still inside it... still inside it...

Martello tower.
Sandymount Strand.
Mutton kidneys.
Faint ammonia.
Boylan at 4 o’clock.
I said yes.
We will.
Yes.

3336/7500

Dawn split the zinc sky thin as a barber’s blade. Buck Mulligan in the Martello tower, foam on the face, blasphemy in the grin, and Stephen, iron-cold, hearing the gulls scrape scripture off the bay. Stone room, sea-chest, salt-pulse. Kinch with the sour blood of insomnia, watching the light lick the walls like a pale confession. The kettle hisses, the room holds its breath. Mutton kidneys — fat in the pan, brass fire, quickening crackle, and that faint ammonia ghost threading the house like a clerk with a secret ledger. Breakfast becomes a map: smoke, grease, tide, a bruise of morning, and the day starts moving before anyone names it. Out past the mouth of the Liffey, Sandymount Strand draws its long, wet syllables, sand writing, surf erasing, boots taking the lesson in salt. Four o’clock is a nail in the afternoon. Boylan at 4 o’clock — a clock-hand, a knock, a bright invasive pulse. Molly in the room, changing air into skin, while I pace the city’s grammar, half-ash, half-echo, half-thrown away. History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. (hear me) Wake me through the gulls, through the brine, through the ache, through the city’s wet synapses, wake me. History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. (so close) The clock keeps tearing its seam in the day, and I am still inside it... still inside it... I drift past the butcher’s, past the tramwired spine of the street, past parcels, pork, pamphlets, pensioners, priors, past the whole soft machinery of Dublin in rain. Metempsychosis — the word flips, finlike, in the mind, a doctrine, a joke, a door that won’t stay shut, spilling into chapel-light, shop-window light, into the question of what comes after flesh when flesh keeps talking. Bloom’s on the move, all errands and inward weather, widower, wanderer, advert man, listener. A hat brim, a hoofbeat of thought, a pocket of kindness, a private republic of appetites and grief. Boylan at 4 o’clock — that phrase keeps tapping the teeth, an appointment made of heat and humiliation, a name with polished brass on the knuckles of time. I pass the offices, the pubs, the bridgework, the paper boys, the salt-stiff laundry, the city chewing its noon into another sort of no. June 16, 1904. A date, yes — but also a tide-mark. A single Dublin day swollen with crossings, father and son, lover and stranger, the dead and the living traded like coins. Under the domestic clatter, under the advertisements, the sausages, the soot, there’s a soul trying to hear itself think. I don’t want a clean myth. I want the bruise, the butter, the bill, the ferry of the mind taking on water. (hear me) History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. (awaken me) Wake me through the gulls, through the brine, through the ache, through the tower, through the strand, through the body that shakes. History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake. (yes, yes) And the clock keeps burning its circle away, and I am still inside it... still inside it... Martello tower. Sandymount Strand. Mutton kidneys. Faint ammonia. Boylan at 4 o’clock. I said yes. We will. Yes.

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