I just picked my nose 
and as far as I can tell 
if I keep doing it 
my head will cave in. 

I think that sums up everything: 
hollow.

I wanted desperately 
to smash something up 
and I scratched around 
for a weapon. 

My eyes landed on a rock. 
Solid, I thought. 
So I picked it up.
Weighty enough. 
I chucked it 
at my neighbours window. 
That'll fuck 'em up. 

I watched every minute motion 
through the air, 
how it turned deliciously, 
how it rolled enigmatically. 
Each inch closer 
to the ecstacy of destruction.

Now, you know what disappointment is. 
You truly appreciate 
how it feels to hollow out, 
to have everything inside 
escape into the void 
without a sound, 
so that your core is 
as empty as your heart, 
as frigid as a soul.
 
That rock just smashed to pieces. 
It was as if the glass 
of the window were concrete 
and the rock was brittle porcelain.

Those fucking bits went everywhere.
And I went nowhere. 

John Cleveland, English poet, was born today in 1613.

Bloomsday is observed in Dublin, Ireland, and elsewhere to commemorate and celebrate the life of Irish author, James Joyce.