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
Week 8 – Snap, Crackle, Strip! | This week we look at Comic Strips in art and poetry | #NRRTG #LPRTG #PopArt
Week 8 – Snap, Crackle, Strip!
Comic Strip Style Pop Art by Roy Lichtenstein with accompanying Comic Strip Style Poetry.
Most of you will know “Drowning Girl” by Lichtenstein best. You may have seen me use it with a mock-caption of my own in Week One of this Snap, Crackle, Art by MJ stuff for the Too Pedantics, err, Blue Semantics, oops, Stew Gigantics, err sorry, I meant Necromatics, blah blah…Nu Romantics. That’s the one.
Lichtenstein’s paintings have sold for millions of dollars but they may be blatant rip-offs of some other artists toiling away for DC Comics and other locations.
Indie authors may not be the only ones guilty of copycatting. Perhaps a Sarchasmo character cockslapping fools (geni.us/Sarchasmo & geni.us/Sarchasmo2) was needed to mete out justice for some of those who penned comic strips. I’m only half-kidding. Lichtenstein’s relationship to criticism was complex at best.
Anyway, I digress.
Most of Lichtenstein’s best-known works are relatively close, but not exact, copies of comic book panels, a subject he largely abandoned in 1965, though he would occasionally incorporate comics into his work in different ways in later decades. These panels were originally drawn by such comics artists as Jack Kirby and DC Comics artists Russ Heath, Tony Abruzzo, Irv Novick, and Jerry Grandenetti, who rarely received any credit. Jack Cowart, executive director of the Lichtenstein Foundation, contests the notion that Lichtenstein was a copyist, saying: “Roy’s work was a wonderment of the graphic formulae and the codification of sentiment that had been worked out by others. The panels were changed in scale, color, treatment, and in their implications. There is no exact copy.” However, some have been critical of Lichtenstein’s use of comic-book imagery and art pieces, especially insofar as that use has been seen as endorsement of a patronizing view of comics by the art mainstream cartoonist Art Spiegelman commented that “Lichtenstein did no more or less for comics than Andy Warhol did for soup.”
Like I said, I digress.
What I want to get to is the idea of comic strips as poems. See some from ‘The Poetry’ and ‘The Poetry Foundation’. These little comic strips are poems. They have rhythm. They show the history of an emotion. Some of them even rhyme. I think they are a lot of fun. Check a few out. Click the Images to Enlarge.
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Biography of Lichtenstein From Wikipedia:
Roy Fox Lichtenstein (pronounced Funkenstein, just kidding, it’s /ˈlɪktənˌstaɪn/; October 27, 1923 – September 29, 1997) was an American pop artist. During the 1960s, along with Andy Warhol, Jasper Johns, and James Rosenquist among others, he became a leading figure in the new art movement. His work defined the premise of pop art through parody. Inspired by the comic strip, Lichtenstein produced precise compositions that documented while they parodied, often in a tongue-in-cheek manner. His work was influenced by popular advertising and the comic book style. He described pop art as “not ‘American’ painting but actually industrial painting”. His paintings were exhibited at the Leo Castelli Gallery in New York City. His patron was Gunter Sachs.
Whaam! and Drowning Girl are generally regarded as Lichtenstein’s most famous works, with Oh, Jeff…I Love You, Too…But… arguably third. Drowning Girl, Whaam! and Look Mickey are regarded as his most influential works. His most expensive piece is Masterpiece, which was sold for $165 million in January 2017.
PUBLIC CUM TITS: “Mad For Jizz” — An excerpt fromfrom Bored To Tears by My Asian Husband
This excerpt is from Chapter Four
“Mad for Jizz” – The Public Cum on Tits Story about an Asian MILF and a virile Latino with a big cock
I was riding the subway across Seoul when I noticed this strait-laced older woman across the train sitting upright with her back arched and chin up. She was middle-aged and prim. Her blouse collar went all the way to the neck, like she was a 1660 Puritan. Her mind had to be all hopped up on Confucianism. She sat upright even as the subway car shook. Me? I was slouched like a teenager. She never slouched. She kept her head and neck up. She could be a posture-double for the Queen of England. She looked at me as I checked her out. She had a banging body. Big, I mean big tits, and shapely waist. She wore a beige pencil skirt and white blouse with high collar. She had long legs. Her purse was on her lap, expertly blocking any view into her private area. When I looked up to make eye contact, she looked away. Hot. The subway stopped and I took out my Korean Language Learning book. She looked up at it and stood up. She sat beside me and said, “You’ll never learn with that book. It’s no good.”
I was taking class to learn the local language, something few expats do around here.
We got out of the subway on the next stop and sat on a wood bench and chatted. Trains passed occasionally. She was pretty uptight. She didn’t have social grace as much as she was simply cautious. She never slouched for the entire talk that must have been half an hour. It seemed to me her nature was cautious, like she didn’t totally trust herself, felt she needed to curtail her inner dialogue, needed to respect the person she was with by not saying much. She must have been treated badly by somebody.
We made a date and met at a posh area in the Seoul. She wore a blue dress that showed off her big fake tits and augmented ass. This area had a department store nearby and a park outside. It was a part of Seoul that had been redeveloped after the prosperity. The stairwell we took to the shops was clean. We were going to a chain restaurant called Mad for Garlic. Koreans love this kind of restaurant. I think of it as a glorified McDonald’s.
“Are you hungry?”
“No? Then why are we going to eat?” I saw the top flesh of her tits and wanted to grab it, to suck on it.
“I thought you would want to. Americans always eat.”
“We do other things sometimes,” I said. My cock was getting hard in my pants. I was imagining pumping it through those tits.
“Then how do you keep your belly?”
“Do you know the expression to put your foot in your mouth?”
“Does it mean hungry?” she asked.
“Do you want a lesson?”
“Kneel down and I’ll show you.” I had yet to even touch this woman on the hand and now I was pushing her down to her knees by her shoulder. She kneeled and looked up at me. She still held one hand out so her purse would dangle from her elbow primly.
This was the fun of dating a prim Asian woman. I would be getting nowhere and then suddenly get my dick sucked. Other days, I would just learn a Korean word and go home and jerk it. It was a total crapshoot.
I put my hand into her curly hair at the back of her head and hooked onto her head. I pushed my body against her so my cock, still in the pants, pushed against her. I saw her eyes go wide. That’s when I whipped it out. She let out a little scream of surprise. I shoved her to it with both my hands pushing the back of her head degradingly toward my balls. I pushed until her lipsticked lips hit my ball sack. We made eye contact. I saw the humiliation and hunger in her eyes. I ripped her dress down and one fake massive tit jumped out over her the folded down fabric that clung to her midriff. I ravaged her mouth. I defiled her tonsils. I disgraced her throat. Then I tenderly kissed her lips with my clean-shaven, white balls. I pulled my smoking gun out of her mouth. She gasped for breath. “Oh my god, you’re so big and rough.”
I pawed at her big fake tit. “You’re so big and fake.”
I molested her big titties, one inside the dress and the other hanging out. The nipple hardened and she looked down at it. “Feel good?” I said as I flicked her nipple. Her face was red as a radish. “Yes, and I’m shameful,” she said. “I shouldn’t let you do anything to me like this.” She leaned her head back in pleasure as I continued to tease her nipple. “Am I your girlfriend?”
I overwhelmed her mouth by dipping my balls into it, debasing her image in front of my eyes, tainting her prim MILF purity. This Korean bitch thought a lot of herself which meant she thought nothing of herself and was now acting out that insecurity-complex by kneeling on the landing before me and nibbling the testicles dipped into her mouth with her tits out. She turned away and I grabbed her head in one hand and rubbed my meaty dick on her face with the other. I tarnished her well-done hair and made clumps stick to her forehead and strands go into her eye. I looked down at her and spit on her face. She closed her mouth tightly. I pushed my cockhead against her lips but she wouldn’t open. I kept rubbing my cock on her face, ruining her mascara, dripping precum and spit onto the tip of her flat nose. I stopped and admired her. She was a disheveled mess. “You look really pretty, Hyeon Mi.”
She looked mortified. She looked up at me with a strange look. I saw her mouth open a bit and jammed my hard cock into her mouth. I heard something behind me and turned to see another couple in the stairway. The girl was staring at Hyeon Mi and I. The guy was trying to pull her back, but she was mesmerized. She was staring. Hyeon Me went red. Even her chest was red, not just her cheeks. I took advantage by fucking her throat. She was protesting, I think, and emitting that mphhhhhhhhhhhh mphhhhhh humming sound with each thrust.
The woman looked from behind and above me at my cock facefucking my Korean MILF. She was a voyeur. She got closer and watched, leading her man by the hand.
She wasn’t bad looking. She was in short shorts flaunting great legs. She wore a backpack and was likely a Chinese tourist from Hong Kong, Singapore, or Malaysia because she spoke in a beautiful English accent: “Mind if I have a watch?”
Hyeon Mi had frozen and was now putty in my hands. I used her throat as a pizza maker uses dough, as an alcoholic uses whisky, as a diabetic uses sugar, as a white, big-dicked, sex addict uses a divorced, lonely, over-forty Korean MILF. I felt Hyeon Mi’s throat around my cockhead, and her lips squeeze the root of my dick. “Please do,” I said politely to the Chinese tourist and then let Hyeon Mi breathe again.
The tourist took my words to heart. She unbuttoned her shorts. Her hand was now in her panties rubbing away at her clit as my dick towered over the kneeling MILF.
I played with Hyeon Mi’s big tit as she caught her breath.
“Ok, baby, that’s enough,” the tourist’s husband said to her. “Let’s go.”
“I want to watch them finish. Will you shoot it on her face or tits?” she asked me.
I grabbed Hyeon Mi by the neck and pushed her down onto the root of my dick again. Her arms flailed as she got gagged again. “Where would you like?” I said to the tourist.
The tourist smiled. She was pretty. Her husband was looking all around like a nervous nellie.
“On her big tits.” The tourist’s hips writhed as she said it like sexual energy was controlling her now.
Hyeon Mi’s throat muscles were all around my cock. I pushed it deeper into her, until I was out of cock. She had taken it all. “You’ve totally deepthroated me, you dirty slut!” I said to the cocksucking, red-faced MILF. Then I looked at the tourist, proudly. I could see the desperation in the voyeur’s face. Her upper lip perspired and her cheeks were flushed. Her pupils were dilating. I was ready to cum. My balls tightened. I wanted to just hold Hyeon Mi down and let her throat milk out my jizz but this desperate tourist girl wanted to see a cum party and I wasn’t about to disappoint this cute little hard-up wife. I pulled my cock out of that glorious, tormented throat. Her big fake tit was flopping over her dress, the other tit was still in the blue fabric. Being watched and deepthroated had my balls working overtime, so the cumshot was an absolute deluge. Thick, globule shots dripped out of my dick and onto her fake tits. It looked like ice cream sliding down her breast. Then my next shots were uncontrollable rockets that landed in the nape of Hyeon Mi’s neck, on her tit, in her cleavage, and into the blue fabric of her dress. I always cum a lot but this was insane. It was a total onslaught, a cum-blitz right in front of two strangers, one of whom was now moaning as she rubbed herself. “Cover those tits,” she said in between two loud orgasmic moans.
My last shots were quite watery and really completed the staining of the MILF’s dress. She was a total cum-swamp. I pushed her big tits together and all the cum pooled in her cleavage. Then I pulled her tits apart and watched the webby cum stretch between them. I noticed that the horny pussy-rubbing tourist’s husband had a camera. “Take a picture of those cum webs,” I instructed.
The female tourist said something to the male tourist in Chinese and sure enough he came over and snapped a few photos. “Get up close. Get her nipples. Get one with her tits and her face, too.” He clicked a last photo and walked back to his wife, who was done finishing herself off. “Get his email so you can send them,” she admonished her man.
Hyeon Mi was a cascade of cum. It was like a cum-cloudburst had erupted onto her. She was still totally red in the face. I don’t think I ever noticed that a woman could stay embarrassed for so long. The funny thing was, the humiliation had just begun.
After trading emails, while some of my cum-spate trickled off Hyeon Mi and onto the ground, I lifted the blue flap of dress over her cum-drenched tit and tried to fix her up the best I could. Her hair was stuck to her forehead, glued with spit and pre-cum. Her bust was totally stained with cumshots. The tit that was out was now making her dress dark as the dress soaked up the semen avalanche that was released from her tits.
“You have to. I’m hungry. Don’t you remember, Americans are always hungry?
I grabbed her hand and led her forward. “Don’t you want a boyfriend, Hyeon Mi?”
Her hand was sweaty. I opened the door to the restaurant. Luckily for her, it was dark inside. The hostess looked right at her bust and gave a wry smile. She led us to a table. We walked past many tables with people. There were lots of glances, chuckles, and whispering. The hostess wisely seated us in a private nook in the corner. I couldn’t tell what Hyeon Mi was feeling, she was stoic. I reached under her dress and found that she wasn’t wearing any underwear, and her pussy was sopping wet from her own avalanche of pussy juice. “Hyeon Mi, you little slut!”
She smiled at me. “Come on, let’s order, we need to feed that massive appetite.”
Read “Mad For Jizz” and other short stories from the full book Bored To Tears by My Asian Husband