The ocean crashes like cymbals against the rock beat shores
labyrinth of weirds and time.
"Ulysses,"1 the everyday,
Bloom's odyssey,
Molly's soliloquy,
a city's unconscious laid bare like a porn star.
The ordeal, the trial by fire,
to confront the Minotaur within.
"In the unconscious is the gate to the soul."2 - paraphrased from Jung, and Joyce.
The Word made flesh,
the Logos, metempsychosis trapped in the allmazifull.
A ধাঁধা (dha ধাঁধা - Bengali for riddle), a puzzle tarot,
a code to be cracked like a warnut.
Will we find our way out of the labyrinth,
or be lost in its soundance?
Will we muster the slang,
or be mastered by it?
The answer, in the spaces between the words,
in the silence between the atoms and ifs on this illumi laminated womanuscript tease.
^1 "Ulysses": James Joyce's epic novel. James Joyce: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ulysses_(novel)
^2 "In the unconscious is the gate to the soul": A paraphrased idea that resonates with both Jungian psychology and the mystical aspects of Joyce's work.