Loseable Paradises

3Cliffs

   Today being Bloomsday- June the 16th, the day on which, in 1904, James Joyce set the events of ‘Ulysses’- here is the opening of ‘Loseable Paradises’, a novel I wrote in 1989 while drunk on Finnegans Wake, before I had realised that imitation, while it may be the sincerest form of flattery, is only a step on the way to finding your own voice…

“It’s a bit of a grovel for the first fifty metres or so, Then it opens out a bit and it’s much easier…”    

(English Pete)

Lawksa-mercy! Why die? Go to search on Sinday. All younge fleshly foulk, an olden stew: weary bodily crisis! Wake O wake all ye fresh’n’chips off the Old Bloke, Pater’s nippers ten times ten; wide eyed, grow to search what time ye hear the sounder the Metzler, and all kindly music, ye faaall down and worse to come. Rhydychen to Mumbles and all points west, Pwll Du too heady stuff. But eaaasy now, take your time, climb down carefully, Carolime. Look down for your next foothold. Fraid? Well knotted. Look between your legs! Lovely. Well done. Yes, you’ll have to go in the water.

-That’s the way. The entrance is just here. Mind your head, Carolime! Spell of spelaeologistics…

Kyrie elation. Werry great actor in Manchestration. Odd’s life! He did live. Where? With her? Pshaw! And after slapper he cupped a feel. Trinkets, all o’ these. Dieser me bloody, do’t in remonstration of me. Eaten circular cycles, ho hum.

-Swallow Whole. All lights on, now. Single file. Sir will bring up the rear. Follow me…

Duw! Barrel a gwin, yer mun exclaim yersen! Mlud, mlearned frendle seek to squeak. Swear is the next witless. Take this book anya rite and read. What’s on the cards? Confleshion of my sings. Bless me Further I did! Readada screedona printit shete. Weebly Evelyn one. Gog! Objectional, mlude sing kuk kuk kuk dis Don doesn’t without so muchasa by your leave bin Bod! Jeezer’s Joists, anathalytical heresay! Watts to be Donne with him?

-Gather round, gather round. Now, turn all your lights out. Come on, now, courage! There. Can’t see your hand in front of your. It’s all right, keep still, listen. Turn that light out. Let your eyes get accustomed to the dark. Listen…

Carol on, Sir! Tale the cortex actuarily why dew in April mayth fall on the flowr? Juno? Or June hot? D’you lie? You have swarmed to swelter strewth. So speak! Tell this august septembly why thou decembled not, but jained in febfully, marching on to Gloria Patchwork, Vera Crewcheese, Chrissy and Hester Day, and Patrick Onal’s festive ale- heady stuff- the searcher’s cheer.

I wail: list, oh list. Scenty mentality, treachin the childer, farce of habit, super stitching fear- ugly hell gape not- and roman to schism. Thassit.

All?

Aye.

Then rent he his garbage and whacked werry rough! A Roman said (to the chewn of Quark! Mousehole! It is the Lord!) before he dried, (and I’ve no reason to believe he lied) he knew a man (think, Ms Cardinal- a new man!) with a love so wide, they had the poor sod crucified. What think ye of Christ?

Mlud, mlearned frendle seek to speke.

Over.

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