Finnegan's Wake Is Easy

Finnegan's Wake is easy.

I'm like more than halfway through.

People will listen to Power Electronics and Noise Music and say Finnegan's wake is too scary.

Don't be such a weenie!

Just read it.

The fact that it's ‘hard’ is bourgeois propaganda.

People like Donda 2 by Kanye West and can't understand half of what he's singing but playful poem Finnegan's Wake is ‘too hard.’

It's not hard.

It's fun to read.

O the world’s a-whirl and a wordygirdle, gurgle me gurl, but Finnegan, faithy, wasn’t no twisty-tongue teazer. Nay! Not as Kanye’s ghosttracks on the netherdrop Donda Deux, where beats do bicker and echo like Cain’s own echo chamber. Where’s the hook? Took it, booked it, crook’d it.

Why’s it so?

Ain’t it clearer than staticclash clanktrap of the noisemachinists, screeching sweet nothings with everything on?

The drone drowns. The Wake wakes. You don’t read it—you ride it, like Moses surfing the Sea of Babbles, or Orpheus in the throat of the club where Cerberus barks breakcore.

Donda Deux?

It plays like echoes in a thunderjar, motherless and versionless, stitched in stemplayer sine. The myth’s there, aye—Yeezus in the wilderness, baptizing basslines, but the frame’s flickering.

But Joyce? Joyce! He give ye the rib of Adam and the laugh of Eve, the Babelbook unbound, riddled with riddim and riddle again, a myth of reading itself.

Finnegan fell—but we’re all falling, loop-de-looping on the page, where sleep speaks its spillage:

"Sir Tristram, violer d’amores..."

(And didn’t Trist turn up in autotune?)

So don’t be afeard, readerdear—Wake don’t bite, it babbles, it bottlefeeds you thundermilk from the breast of all tongues.

Thyee noise is harder.

This is just the dream you always dreamt—but spelled like thunder speaks: slant, sideways, back again, and blissful.