(no subject)
Feb. 5th, 2003 02:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
40cakesWe're in that ever important chapter of Russian where we learn how to discuss arts and literature. [I should note that our book has not yet taught us important things like "More vodka, wench!" and "Where is the toilet?" ("Gde tyalet?").] I mentioned that I prefer contemporary poetry, and so one of my classmates lent me a book by Billy Collins, U.S. Poet Laureate.
What God awful stuff. Who decides this sort of thing? No, really. I want an answer here.
A sample:
All these years and I never realized
why I found the mourning dove so interesting
until you pointed out
that morning we stood by the icy window
its resemblance to Robert Penn Warren--
the secretive eyes, soft royal neck,
and the mild, unruffled demeanor.
To give you an idea of what poetry I do enjoy, I'll give you another sample:
I will slur
And heel and hem and haw
I will eat a monkey paw
When you call me up and command me to come over to your house for sex and tea
biscuits, I shall clandestinely drop my cummerbund down the dumbwaiter chute.
Lutes will serenade us like liquid lemonade.
You will glisten like newborn snow, and I will listen like a clairvoyant nipple clamp.
It will be sex, like nobody has ever had it before in the history of postmodern lovemaking.
It will be sex, even if it isn't.
It will be sex, even if only in theory, even if it's only pantomime, even if it's just a memory, or a dream or a symphonic approximation; after a summer of autonomous sodomy and national geographic specials about pretty
animals that use other little animals as food, by eating them,
on television.
But we shouldn't even watch television, we should just have sex:
epoch making, earth shaking,
teeth chattering, dish clattering,
fish frying, eye popping,
never stopping, bunny hopping,
toe tapping, Joseph Papping sex.
Shakespeare in the park kinda sex.
D train ride to Coney Island vacation kinda sex.
Clandestine in the airplane lavatory kind of sex.
Olympic marathon sex.
All the different way that we feel like having sex, we should, until we grow old and bored and disillusioned.
Then let us rekindle our feelings,
forget our despair and our celibate nonsense
and fuck like bunnyrats till the cows come home to roost.
So call me sometime, and let's have sex.
- Let's Have Sex, John S. Hall
Fantasticness.
Also, recommended downloads for the week -
Moxy Früvous - Sahara
Counting Crows - Colorblind
>^..^
What God awful stuff. Who decides this sort of thing? No, really. I want an answer here.
A sample:
All these years and I never realized
why I found the mourning dove so interesting
until you pointed out
that morning we stood by the icy window
its resemblance to Robert Penn Warren--
the secretive eyes, soft royal neck,
and the mild, unruffled demeanor.
To give you an idea of what poetry I do enjoy, I'll give you another sample:
I will slur
And heel and hem and haw
I will eat a monkey paw
When you call me up and command me to come over to your house for sex and tea
biscuits, I shall clandestinely drop my cummerbund down the dumbwaiter chute.
Lutes will serenade us like liquid lemonade.
You will glisten like newborn snow, and I will listen like a clairvoyant nipple clamp.
It will be sex, like nobody has ever had it before in the history of postmodern lovemaking.
It will be sex, even if it isn't.
It will be sex, even if only in theory, even if it's only pantomime, even if it's just a memory, or a dream or a symphonic approximation; after a summer of autonomous sodomy and national geographic specials about pretty
animals that use other little animals as food, by eating them,
on television.
But we shouldn't even watch television, we should just have sex:
epoch making, earth shaking,
teeth chattering, dish clattering,
fish frying, eye popping,
never stopping, bunny hopping,
toe tapping, Joseph Papping sex.
Shakespeare in the park kinda sex.
D train ride to Coney Island vacation kinda sex.
Clandestine in the airplane lavatory kind of sex.
Olympic marathon sex.
All the different way that we feel like having sex, we should, until we grow old and bored and disillusioned.
Then let us rekindle our feelings,
forget our despair and our celibate nonsense
and fuck like bunnyrats till the cows come home to roost.
So call me sometime, and let's have sex.
- Let's Have Sex, John S. Hall
Fantasticness.
Also, recommended downloads for the week -
Moxy Früvous - Sahara
Counting Crows - Colorblind
>^..^
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no subject
Date: 2003-02-05 01:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-02-05 08:18 am (UTC)"Cád é do leithreas?" <=== Irish. Especially useful after "Píonta Guinness, mas é do thoil é" (pint of Guinness, please)
no subject
Date: 2003-02-05 05:54 pm (UTC)