Talking With Joyce
The frowning light of my desk lamp, the voice
of hell dissolved in strongest alcohol,
my drunk and naked shadow on the wall…
The printed wiki photo of James Joyce,
who died of stomach ulcer, shakes his head,
seeing I drink Laphroaig from the inkwell.
It is all right for you, James, you may well
speak of addictive practices: you’re dead,
you’ve been a famous novelist but I
yet have to be a famous and to die.
Life Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Ironic Zink
Copyright © Kurt Ravidas | Year Posted 2019
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