This stuff is going out today and tomorrow to the winners! Yay!
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To His Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
A hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Giogio De Chirico’s Style (from Wikipedia, please click Wikipedia for his full biography)
In the paintings of his metaphysical period, De Chirico developed a repertoire of motifs—empty arcades, towers, elongated shadows, mannequins, and trains among others—that he arranged to create “images of forlornness and emptiness” that paradoxically also convey a feeling of “power and freedom”. According to Sanford Schwartz, De Chirico—whose father was a railroad engineer—painted images that suggest “the way you take in buildings and vistas from the perspective of a train window. His towers, walls, and plazas seem to flash by, and you are made to feel the power that comes from seeing things that way: you feel you know them more intimately than the people do who live with them day by day.”
In 1982, Robert Hughes wrote that De Chirico
could condense voluminous feeling through metaphor and association … In The Joy of Return, 1915, de Chirico’s train has once more entered the city … a bright ball of vapor hovers directly above its smokestack. Perhaps it comes from the train and is near us. Or possibly it is a cloud on the horizon, lit by the sun that never penetrates the buildings, in the last electric blue silence of dusk. It contracts the near and the far, enchanting one’s sense of space. Early de Chiricos are full of such effects. Et quid amabo nisi quod aenigma est? (“What shall I love if not the enigma?”)—this question, inscribed by the young artist on his self-portrait in 1911, is their subtext.
In this, he resembles his more representational American contemporary, Edward Hopper: their pictures’ low sunlight, their deep and often irrational shadows, their empty walkways and portentous silences creating an enigmatic visual poetry.
Can you see and hear the link between the metaphysical poets and metaphysical art? Giorgio DeChirico ended up locked away in an insane asylum. So if you find yourself writing or painting about long shadows, I’d cut that shit out before it’s too late.
In all seriousness, “To His Coy Mistress” is just a fancy way to say “I want to get laid, baby!” I don’t know about metaphysical poetry for this one. It’s more of cockstroking poetry. Perhaps, it would be more apt to call it the Metaphysical Smutpunk. Anyways, De Chirico, to me, captures much of the mystery and sense of space and peace that Dali captures. He’s almost like Dali without the paranoid-schizophrenia. Funny, that De Chirico is the one who went mad.
Let me know what you think about metaphysical art.
#SnapCrackleArtByMJ #DeChirico #MetaphysicalArt #MetaphysicalPoet #AndrewMarvell
Rui, how can I explain her?
between her breasts
to the pleasure dimension
in her mouth
her throat’s warm comfort total and sublime
in her ass crack
the great ecstasy nebula
floating gentle as smoke
between her legs
the great slit of creation
beckoning me to return to the powdery blaze
Note: It’s with great pleasure that I share the amazing artwork of Almeidap from Deviant Art. Click the image of Rui’s inspection, the one where she’s naked, to see Almeidap’s full gallery. I hope this poem expresses a little bit of the wonder of the art.
i want to send Jenny
a phat juicy ass
and puckered asshole
a watusi mass
and cupboard bowl
velcro’d to a message:
we could have stayed together
i miss pumping your
your either holes
and lemonade mix
no more cliffhangers, baby
she knows my
get your ugly whore face
over here now
we can swing together
from tit to tit
from ass to ass
like how you love
sneaking up behind me
and tossing my salad
write on bits
of torn paper
place in each
between the sheets
naked and revealed
like an author
in a book store
will open the pages
in Mumbai, or Strasbourg,
or an underground mall
wonder where this magical
ticker tape came from
machine in China? latrine in Bangladesh?
sweat shop in una hacienda en Mexico
political referendum in Kathmandu
criminal apprehended in a Chateau in West Bordeaux
extradited to Moscú
with nothing but a portmanteau
slung on his back
filled with toy
milking each other
in this literotica
until the glorious white ink
splashes, sprays, spooges
the tiny bits
this unlined moleskin
now has lines
not on the page
not in the library
not on this planet
but in your mind’s eye
that infinite ticker tape parade
sprinkling all over
word by word
letter by letter
serif sans serif
Please Share if You Enjoyed!
Rosetta Stone / Crypt Key
Definitions of portmanteau:
noun: a large travelling bag made of stiff leather
noun: a new word formed by joining two others and combining their meanings
Example: “`motel’ is a portmanteau word made by combining `motor’ and `hotel'”
*zedonk, from zebra and donkey (progeny of)
*literotica, from literature and erotica
Good Morning, Pulp Army!
I’m jetlagged, up early with plans to work out brutally with a friend but it’s raining in New York City, so that’s cancelled. I should write, but I’m too foggy yet hyped up and just don’t feel like it. I’ll probably troll FB and make snide comments on lots of shit that irritates me (well, everything) and remix poems that drive me up a wall. Am I a dick?
In related news, if you troll my site you will see that I often hate my own poems. One of my professors once told me that Anne Sexton used to read her poems publicly with a pencil in her hand and cross stuff out and rearrange things as she read out loud. I think the poetic soul is restless, unsatisfied, and just generally surly. Mine is. The thing that seems to be constantly out of whack and even changing as the world grows and the universe reconsiders everything and nothing and cares deeply and apathetically is the rhythm. Rhythm, rhythm, rhythm. They say when buying a house or learning how to throw a fastball “location, location, location.” Well, I say two main things to myself when writing: one, “so what?” and two, “rhythm, rhythm, rhythm!”
Personally, I think writing poetry makes my prose flow better and activates it. It gives it energy and sizzle. I mean we write to entertain. Who wants flat and boring? I mean, outside of FB (teehee). I’m not sure if writing prose helps my poetry. Probably not. I think the only thing that would help my poetry is electric shock therapy, but I guess I’m not much of an artist because I’m not willing to make that kind of sacrifice.
Snap, Crackle, Art by MJ (for Nu Romantics)
Week Five (5) of #SnapCrackleArtByMJ has to veer off the kitschy pop–art–tram–dressed–as-train and get on a proper Dali locomotive for a moment. While at the Dali Theater-Museum in Figueres, Catalonia, Spain, I took a photo through a looking glass of the Mae West room. A few weeks ago I posted that Mae West photo. That was a photo I took from the internet. This time it’s my photo with my own hands. I think you’ll enjoy it. If you click the above hashtag and scroll back on the Nu Romantics site, you will see Mae’s lips (and other lips). Here is Dali’s rendition of her, built with furniture and two paintings for eyes. To see the exhibit in Figueres, Catalonia, Spain I traveled by AVE (Alta Velocidad Espanol) to the sleepy little hometown of Dali. It’s a lovely town that was a pleasure to visit even if there wasn’t the amazing artist’s museum. The pre-museum cortado was delicious and afterwards my wife and enjoyed one of the best gazpachos I ever had. Unfortunately, salmorejo seems scarce in Catalunya (I adore that spelling of the word). If you’re like me, Spain is worth visiting just for the food (much as France is). However, Spain has Dali. Dali was a fierce nationalist, so much so that he openly supported the Franco dictatorship. Most journalists don’t dwell on this fact because they like to make art seem always made by liberals. Dali was a complex man, one who wasn’t even allowed access to his wife and muse Gala. By the end of their relationship, he bought her a house in the countryside, one which she had always wanted, and was only allowed visitation rights rarely and set up by formal request and acceptance via post. All of this Dali tension makes sense as you approach the red museum with eggs on the roof and a great big glass dome in the middle. His tomb is inside the museum and the whole place reeks of surrealism. To see the Mae West exhibit which I’d like to talk about as it links to a past post, I went into a dark room and then walked up a small staircase and stood under an elephant. I looked through a viewfinder between the super long legs of an elephant sculpture. The viewfinder fish-eyed the room to reveal a beautiful Mae West. See the photo below.
I also had the pleasure of visiting the Miro Museum in Barcelona. Among many amazing features of Miro’s work, I was struck by one particular phase of his work were he burned the canvas that he painted. He didn’t burn it to smithereens, he just set it ablaze enough to poke a hole in it, and blacken certain edges, and char some of the colors. As I stood in awe of his work, I thought how that would translate into writing. I thought about If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler by the incomparable Italo Calvino (by far my favorite writer ever) and thought that his book about a manuscript gone wrong at the printer is about as close as anyone has come to simulating the burnt canvas of Joan Miro. In today’s ePublishing ecosystem, I think it can be done pretty well. I mean the digital file is certainly corruptable. What possible permutations are there? In Choose Your Own Kink SEXcapade, I tackle some of those possibilities, but a book I’ve been taking notes for before writing (Tentatively Titles If on a Mid-Summer’s Early-Evening a Prostitute) has more of a possibility of doing some justice to Miro’s vision. He made some incredible art that really stretched the boundary of what is art. Smutpunk owes Miro and incredible debt of gratitude. See photos below.
- Whose work do you enjoy more, Dali or Miro?
- What do you like about each artist?
Find more photos from my museum excursion in Catalunya and facebook.com/MoctezumaLXIX.
‘Snap, Crackle, Art’ by MJ
on Nu Romantics
Week 5 at Nu Romantics (featuring photos from the Dali Theatre-Museum in Figueres, Spain) – Mirror Post Hosted Online at moctezumajohnson.com
Week 6 at Nu Romantics (waiting for the Nu Romantic Folks *avg wait time so far = 12 hours) – Mirror Post Hosted Online at medium.com