jklabs

Courtesy of Jonathan Feinberg’s Haiku Finder:

No soul will live there.
   The spider pitches her web
in the solitude.

Something poisonous
   I ate. Emblem of luck. Why?
Probably lost cattle.

The keys of Dublin,
   crossed on a crimson cushion,
are given to him.

Patriotism,
   sorrow for the dead, music,
future of the race.

He averts his face.
   Bella from within the hall
urges on her whores.

Was the narration
   otherwise unaltered by
modifications?

Mr Bloom came last
   folding his paper again
into his pocket.

Piled up in cities,
   worn away age after age.
Pyramids in sand.

Well, my fault perhaps.
   No son. Rudy. Too late now.
Or if not? If not?

Yours for the asking.
   Because they want it themselves.
Their natural craving.

Bad plan however
   if you don't know how to end
the conversation.