Metaphysical Poetry, Art, Smutpunk | Snap, Crackle, Cosmic Debris by MJ
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.
–Andrew Marvell
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.
So what’s the connection?
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.
See previous weeks of Snap, Crackle, Art.
#SnapCrackleArtByMJ #DeChirico #MetaphysicalArt #MetaphysicalPoet #AndrewMarvell
Poem Remix of Untitled Poem by Poet who May Not Even Exist #Poem #LPRTG
hey, traveler!
write on bits
of torn paper
place in each
favorite library
between the sheets
naked and revealed
like an author
in a book store
perhaps someone
will open the pages
in Mumbai, or Strasbourg,
or an underground mall
in Seoul
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
zedonks
milking each other
in this literotica
playing harmonica
squeezing titty
teat-a-teat
tête-à-tête
until the glorious white ink
splashes, sprays, spooges
the tiny bits
of paper
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
the multiverse
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
A Poem: Will Face Fucking Break Your Heart, Baby? #Erotica #Poem #HotWife
licking her pussy
tongue pressed on her clit
her hand on my head
her hips bucking
she cums
fucking her slow and deep
cock hitting the walls
curved up to press
her g-spot
she cums
“don’t break my heart,”
she squeezes
her massive juggs
together
“will facefucking that
skinny girl dressed like Chun Li
break your heart?”
i pinch one nipple
of her melons,
“not if you do it
in front of me.”
her eyes go glassy
“not if you grab her neck
shove her down ’til she
makes gagging sounds and
her eyes bulge.”
i squeeze a massive mound
of her titty flesh.
“I can’t do that to a sweet girl
like her. That’s for whores
like you.”
Is there anything worse than heart break?
Poem by Moctezuma Johnson
Peel Another Banana, America
You love Aztec bitches
in their feathered headress
tattoed Teotitlan titties
hairless heiroglypic cunts
Today Tijuana has–
Meshica cunt shtuffed
full of obsidian cock–
Dress her up like an Aztec
in jaguar skin
to sacrifice at the altar
of thick Moctezuma cock
lay her on the stone
high atop pyramid
high on princess pussy
with King-sized cock
plunge that guatemalteca
like you were splitting her
in two, ripping her apart
to get her entrails out
conquest style, imperialistic you
splatter that tomato-
chocolate- and coffee-inventing
face with dick drip
diciendo: “dame dame dame
todo el poder!”
cut out that heartbreak after
you make the jade wearing jade–
that slattern bitch
who brags that nowadays
she’s pure Spanish blood
dark corn tits
two hard niblets
silver plated teeth–
absorb moctezuma’s semen storm
the discharge deluge.
strip the strumpet
slap choad chili
on her Pharoah-like ajpuob forehead.
you own the was-going-to-be royalty now
gaping her ass this time
as you jam it all the way in to her whine
then let it all the way out to her sigh
on the fiend’s own fertile floor
home of her blood-thirsty gods
where birds chirp hysterically
whine sigh whine sigh
like they are getting ass-fucked
like strumpets, jungle-wide
the whole forest thirsts
what you give hard and domineering
the whole forest aims for what you take
yet she cries
as face gets blow-gunned with semen,
sprayed, like her idols are splatterpunked with blood.
smutpunk her with imperial cum
she is kneeling — tell her “suck,
to save yourself,”
she only sobs and murmurs it isn’t fair
you cock-slap her face
then jam it down past her tonsils
while salty rivers stream
down into the corners of her mouth
again, you stretch out the corners of her bowels
cum up her asshole
then throw her down
pyramid steps
nothing could have saved her
note:
some reviewer said i wrote about rape so i’ve decided to write about rape. thanks. if you can’t expect logic from a review why shouldn’t i indulge in it? what’s it called? double jeopardy? since I’ve already been found guilty of the crime via 1-star review it’s carte blanche on committing said crime. i’ve already paid the fine, so why not commit the crime with panache? So i’ve revisited this poem of the brutal imperialism of white people v. indians in the conquest of (latin) america. it’s a deep poem. i expect many won’t understand the point. if you do, please SHARE or leave a comment. Thanks, lovelies!
Two Poems by Emme Hor | #EARTG #MrBrtg #LPRTG |
Two Poems about Rothko and Rosenvasser
by Emme Hor
I was the meat
Rothko and Rosenvasser were the bread
I sauced, creamy dressing
mustard-honey vinaigrette on lunch-meat
they were lightly toasted
and soggy in the middle
^.^
Rothko and Rosenvasser
hate each other
each spits when he
hears the name of the other
$.
Author bio:
Emme Hor was born in Malaysia. She has a degree in Law and in Ass-kicking. She looks like a smoking hot supermodel, standing over six feet tall. She was once offered 10,000 dollars to take a Bukkake. Whether or not she accepted can be neither confirmed nor denied. If you compliment her on her poetry she may sign a picture of her ass for you as a souvenir. Get yourself ready for the Confessions of a Whore Series.
^.^
^.^
Is this “Cuntface” from Moctezuma Johnson’s new book of poems? | #EARTG #LPRTG #POEMS
i always want
to eat cum
your cum
master
and show it to you
on my tongue
so you know
that i’m a good
pig
may i have another
load
please?
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