/lit/ - Literature

GIVE IT UP, BIZNATCHES! AUNTIE WIZ IS IN THE HIZZLE;
AND JUST ONE GLIMPSE OF WYSTAN'S WIZENED PHIZ'LL
GIVE YOU A HARD-ON
FOR AUDEN
YOU BITCHES GET YOUR BARD ON:
YOU CAN LAY ME GIVE ME SLEEPING HEAD MY LOVE IN CHRIST-CHURCH GARDEN,
CAUSE YOU KEEP SUCKIN MY BONE
LIKE A MENHIR OF LIMESTONE
AS YOU PROLIFICALLY DEVOUR ME I BUCK AND MOAN
IN SONNETS AND SESTINAS, LIMERICKS, VERS LIBRE AND PROSE
SPEW LIBRETTI LIKE CONFETTI ON THE SETTEE WHERE SHE PLATONICALLY BLOWS.
WITH PHILOSOPHIC RUMINATIONS AND FORMALISTIC TOURS-DE-FORCE
AND ELEGIES AND ALLEGORIES AND TRAVELOGUES OF COURSE,
AND OPERAS WITH CHESTER (WHO'S HUNG LIKE A LOVELY HORSE,
THOUGH HIS NONSTOP INFIDELITIES JUST MIGHT FORCE US TO DIVORCE).
BUT ALL THE BOOZE AND BENZEDRINE AFFECTED MY BRAIN,
MY FACE LOOKS LIKE A WEDDING-CAKE LEFT OUT IN THE RAIN,
BUT LET'S NOT IGNORE THE MOST VITAL STATS:
ONCE YEATS WAS DEAD, I WAS KING OF THE CATS

Try typing your favorite pieces of poems or longer quotes from memory.
Here's mine. Stanza from Auden's Sept 1 1939, but I fucked up halfway through

All I have is a voice
to undo the folded lie.
the romanticism lies in the brain
and the lie of authority
whose buildings grope the sky
something something something
blah blah blah
negation and despair,
show your affirming flame

>hfw I fuck up his badass poetry...

Harold Bloom is definitely NOT dead. In fact, it's his birthday this weekend. I plan to celebrate by acting out my favorite scenes from "The Flight to Lucifer", then having sex with Naomi Wolf while discussing theories as to why he couldn't complete "Transference and Authority".

Pic related: if you actually think Harold Bloom is a reasonable or sane judge of literature, try reading his Chelsea House preface on Auden.

And here he was sitting beside me, legs apart.
I could bear it no longer. I touched the inside of his thigh.
His reply was to move closer. I trembled. My heart
Thumped and jumped as my fingers went to his fly.

I opened a gap in the flap. I went in there.
I sought for a slit in the gripper shorts that had charge
Of the basket I asked for. I came to warm flesh then to hair,
I went on. I found what I hoped. I groped. It was large.

He responded to my fondling in a charming, disarming way:
Without a word he unbuckled his belt while I felt
And lolled back, stretching his legs. His pants fell away.
Carefully drawing it out, I beheld what I held.

The circumcised head was a work of mastercraft,
With perfectly beveled rim of unusual weight
And the friendliest red. Even relaxed, the shaft
Was of noble dimensions with the wrinkles that indicate

Singular powers of extension. For a second or two,
It lay there inert then suddenly stirred in my hand,
Then paused as if frightened or doubtful of what to do,
And then with a violent jerk began to expand.

By soundless bounds it extended and distended, by quick
Great leaps it rose, it flushed, it rushed to its full size.
Nearly nine inches long and three inches thick,
A royal column ineffably solemn and wise.