frozen deathspew

"the frozen deathspew of the slain,
a shout of spear spikes baited with men's bloodied guts."
I've been tackling James Joyce's Ulysses, hit him at about waist-level, wrapping my arms around his legs, trying to take his knees out from behind. Other times, I spear him, helmet first, right in the gut, knocking myself out. Sharp shootingpain through the neck, down my spine.
Pompous arse is he, all Hellenic in disposition, nothing more than centuries old composition, the state of the art at that given time. All the Latin, Greek., French, Gaelic terminology, mixed up with made-up stream of consciousness noises and pseudowords, feels more like a rushing torrent, knocking me off my feet. Gasping for air, grasping for comprehension, methinks I have it, but then both are gone again.
Thick as a bible, enshrined as a classic, but still unknown to most, the lumbering tome beckons me back for more. I catch quick glimpses, make incorrect suppositions, what did he mean by that? Is that important, is he foreshadowing, or just teasing me, showing me some leg under his post-Victorian dress?
Devious as I am, I don't know that I could ever fill that many pages with meaningful content, without utterly losing the reader. I'm thick with supposed meaning, but is that merely my own delusion taking form, in a perfect personification of nothingness? So literate was Joyce, but not completely literal, pages jam-packed full of greatness and meaning. More bang for the buck, or the pound, or halfpence or shilling or whatever it was they used back then in Dublin town.
Pound-for-pound, I could probably take him. Norman Mailer, Ernest Hemingway too. But I’ve become quite round, despite switching to light beer, isn’t that odd? Not the short, sleek, speedy thing I used to be. What separates the literate from the self deluded? OOhhh did you see how he inserted something about Helen of Troy, in the midst of his soliloquy on Madame Tweedy, the harlot of the house of Bloom?
What if I talk of Nanaboozhoo, living in Kalamazoo, or Arjuna, eating Dolphin-free tuna? What is literary and what is simply a masturbatory exercise? I called the Dharma nice braincandy once, not out of any maliciousness, but because I thought it to be true. What of the many journeys we all have taken, not in space, but simply in our minds, how do we take that misshapen mass and make something of it?
I have a confession for you, I confessed too much tonight, to someone that has no reason to care about my ramblings. The truth set me free for a moment, but in reality, I only wanted to set a trap for her, to lure her in with my candidness. Same old game, different tact, no agreed upon rules, just me being me in the vilest of ways.
The reality of my situation is actually quite surreal, trapped in a dungeon of my own making, blaming my handpicked jailor, trying to bait someone to come set me free. But freedom is not what I want, I just want a different view of the same old rubbage heap. I'm not proud, actually quite ashamed, but that doesn't mean I'll quit this game, all the same. . .