Darkened Deathchamber

So he was before he got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne.
Good idea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know.
He died of a Tuesday. Got the run. Levanted with the cash of a few ads.
Charley, you're my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well, does no harm.
I saw to that, M'Coy. Thanks, old chap: much obliged.
Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing.
(James Joyce)

Joyce in Translation

Brazilian
SOBRANCEIRO, fornido, Buck Mulligan vinha do alto da escada,... STATELY, PLUMP BUCK MULLIGAN CAME FROM THE STAIRHEAD, ...
Italian
Solennemente, gravemente, Buck Mulligan veniva dall'alto della scala...
English
STATELY, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a...
French
Majesteux et dodu, Buck Mulligan parut en haut des marches...
German
GRAVITÄTISCH kam der dicke Buck Mulligan vom Austritt am obern Endeder treppe...
Spanish
Solemne, el gordo Buck Mulligan avanzó desde la salida de la escalera...
Czech
Otylý, statný Tur Mulligan se vynoril ze schodu, nesl misku s mydlinami...
Danish
Buck Mulligan trådte op fra det øverste af trappen;...
Norwegian
Statelig trinn trådte Buck Mulligan frem øverst i trappen...
Swedish
Högtidligt trädde den satte Buck Mulligan fram fran detöverstatrappesteget...
Finnish
Komea, pulska Buck Mulligan tuli portaidenpäästä kädessään vaahdokekuppi,...
Dutch
Statig kwam de dikke Buck Mulligan uit het trapgat...
Catalan
SOLEMNEMENT, el rodanxó Boc Mulligan aparegué al capdamunt de l'escala,...
Turkish
SARMAN, BABAC BUCK MULLIGAN, üzerine bir aynayla bir ustura haçvari...
Portuguese
POMPOSO, rolico, Buck Mulligan veio do alto da escada...
Slovenian
Dostojanstveno je sisao gojazni Buck Mulligan s vrha stopnišca
Croatian
Dostojanstevno je sisao gojazni Buck Mulligan s vrha stubista...
Polish
STATECZNY, PULCHNY, BUCK MULLIGAN WYNURZYL SIE Z WYLOTU SCHODOW,...

http://amseverino.sites.uol.com.br/bloomsday.html

In The Heart Of The Hibernian Metropolis

What question, upon observing Bloom, formed in the cerebral hemisphere of Boylan (a bester, a boaster)?
Did he ever put it out of sight?
Confronted by Boylan (a bounder, a billsticker), with what question did Bloom inwardly smile and arrive at a state of equanimity?
Why doesn't Boylan go to blazes?

Walesbone and Ashes

He was the king of Wales, besotting liver with Whiskeys and Port and a well-crafted Armagnac made from putrid berries and lye, tannins in the word, not the tower ad cloister. Horse clomps and sea tightening round manse and collar. He died in rime and curse, nary a hopes hell nor a cleverer chap as he. The vouchers in the word, scored on walesbone and ashes.

Nethermostparts

Her eyes are green scallion-green. Not blue-cobalt or turquoise like a mountain lake, avian-blue, yet bluer. Hazel-blue, sclera, snot-green, flecked with dirt muddied turbid roiling. Nile-brown, or is it Ganges, necrotic with the stench, mortified and scabby; lice-scales flittering in an alabaster whiteness whiter than a priest’s robe, so it is, that white; Platonic-blue sodomy-blue, the Form of forms blue, yet bluer still. Too much blueness and not enough greenness, death’s ripening, in this the best of all. Blazes Boylan’s blissful assignations with Molly’s netherparts, undergarments hiked up around her throat warbling madly, seedcake seed everywhere. Not even the good manners to lave his privates with lemony-scented soap, purloined from poor cuckolded Leopold’s greatcoat pocket; the nerve of the man, this Blazes Boyland, opera enthusiast, sodomer of Molly’s nethermostpart.

Blazes Boylan's Gobspit

You are a bogeyman, a mountblanche, a scrofulous fuck. I, however, am the beauty that beholds the eye, the confectionery sugar that sullies the pads of your tongue, the eyelash that you brush away from the fop of your trousers. I am l’ amour oral, the teeth beveling the manse of your thoughts, the shift in perspective from hygiene to soiling. You are a Freudian night-terror, an intractable pathology, a STD that can neither be stayed nor rescinded; a viral spirochete, head bullying thighs, mons and parturition hole. I am Molly’s defiled Bloomers, Blazes Boylan’s gobspit slathering the cleave between a whorish thigh. I am lemony-scented soap, lurched in pocket ruffs trove with lint and candy wrappings. I am a postcard from ‘what’s-her name’, that bog-land slut with Dublin’s dirt in the squirrel of her treeing. You, whomever, are tonsure bare, blunt-cut and stained through with night-wetting and bucking soars.

Robin’s egg-blue, nature, nurture, pollute, corrupt, soil, profane, infinitude, destitute, refute, confute, salute, rebuke, collate, reprobate, allocate, falsify, dolomite, hard Etruscan bone, white, whiter, whitest, pale-white, junk-worry white, whitest white, whiter. And tongue balanced lolling in the chance of her mouth, sullying saltlick-cowing cud and grassland muddy with Dublin dirt and tenor’s railhead siring poor mad-footed Lucia dancing madly, mad. Patchy-eyed ginstone, hiking trousers to knee and ankle and foot and arch, mollycoddling commode wiping ass with Sears and Roebucks and Atlantis Monthly. Joyless’ eyesore, river runs round pound, errata, drowsing never to awaken to quillwort, barnacle and tackman’s stub.

Bloom's Dairy

Leotard Bloom stood at the foot of the stairwell and intoned: e pluribus malediction, in his pocket a bar of lemony-scented soap, what’shername’s name scribbled on the postage-window. It’s Blum’s Dray he said, liveries and cattlecarts and oxen on the hoof, poor Paddy in Cossacks’ do up and hemp soled sandals. When I was a boy my father bought fishing worms from the man who owned Crèmes’ gas station. They came in a Bloom’s Dairy Styrofoam container and smelled like mulch and leaf-rot. Today is Blooms Day, the day that my father bought me worms. I hated fishing, but liked the Styrofoam container the worms came in. Happy Blooms Day, and may the fish be biting.

For Seamus Heaney

cocks wither in the summer heat
necks wrung like washing rags
languid socks of skin and thew

your hair twisted into cornrows
a quarrel of pale yellow sun
tracing the crib of your lips

cats prowl the silage for mice
tails scab with viscera and douse
the summer heat spun into shadow

my uncle’s gore callused hands
chucking necks like slough rags
into the silage trap

I lift the barrows of your skirt
revealing a warrant cat
a severed cockscomb in its mouth

Moth Collections

flail-points rasped to burr-edges on a match striker
and a pull of yellow-sulfur air black with chamfer and junk-worry
skin anointed with grain alcohol and puddle tarn, and the hex of her arm

roughshod with brittle, lost in that corner where thoughts are devils

and children’s scabbed over knees are revenants of dog’s tongues, milk
teeth and whalebone, and church spires tracing blood and scrimshaw
on the boughs of moth-nettled arms

Ray begged for coppers and unused change with his left hand, the right one having been sheared off by a cog pin. He disliked cows’ tripe, moth collections and anything soaked in formaldehyde. His father drove for the Mercury Fish company and liked molasses candies, which he pilfered from the walk-in freezer behind the punch-in meter. Ray’s mother volunteered with the deaf and wore red taffeta dresses with beige stockings. She had rickets which she salved with desiccated goat’s milk and castor oil. Ray’s brother had spayed feet and a cowlick that formed a cone on the top of his head. He wore shoes with struts and a hat that keeled to one side, making him look off-centred and fat. On his twenty-first birthday Ray lost his mind two hours after dropping acid and drinking a Coke laced with Bufferin, which he stole from the Cantor’s Bakery behind the Mercury Fish company. That Wednesday Ray’s brother moved into his room and took down all his posters.