MSN: A Requiem.

by Colin Surname.

Today, well-known computering firm Microsoft are starting the retirement process of their once-popular instant messaging program MSN Messenger (The ‘MSN’ stands for ‘MesSeNger’). This news is particularly wounding to those of us who were teenagers within the first decade of this millennium (‘the ooies’), or at least pretended to be.

Messenger was generally used by smiling women with an interest in movie. image: MSN.com

We grew up with it, you see. We were on the computer all the time before it was cool. Whilst you were out having physical contact and getting sufficient sleep, we made friends all over the world. They might not be able to lend us sugar, but they can be there for us when we need to talk at 5am.

I don’t think of MSN as a close friend per se – more of a chatty client. Though its low self-esteem caused it to constantly try to ‘update’ itself and fit in with the social networking crowd, it provided us with many formative experiences along the way:

• Our intellectual growth: from textspeak, through proper English, to ALL CAPS OMG
• Our first long-distance relationship
• Our first online nudity
• Our first long-distance breakup
• Seeing our very own parents come to discover Messenger
• Blocking our very own parents
• Minesweeper Flags

MSN, or “Windows Live Messenger” as it was known to morons, had a famous cry, “Dooty-doo!”. Despite limp imitations such as Skype’s “Bwouwup” and Facebook’s “Buwoo!”, “Dooty-doo!” remains unassailable and will always resound in our (L) of (L)s.

Jen asks about her own hair. Sally laughs in the face of “Loading”. They both go 2 movie. Image: Softmaximum.com

Messenger had a lot of innovation – for example, it was the first IM client to introduce the ‘Nudge’. This feature brought online communication one step closer to real life by emulating that point in a conversation where they look away from you for a second, so you jump on their foot and do a primal scream.

The Group Conversation feature, meanwhile, gave us the opportunity to form vast committees of friends and have a big, focussed discussion. Sure, most of the people dropped out within the first minute, but that Malaysian guy you ended up with knew a lot about chemtrails.

MSN’s later years were not moments of pride: it would often be found in the company of cheap young pleasuredroids with algorithmically-unlikely female names. Some of us were driven away by late-added features, such as Winks, display pictures being on the left, and fewer people signing in. Still, MSN recognised the different fonts and colours in our voices, and could always express whatever little yellow face, animal impression or lewd, poorly-animated custom gesture we wanted to make.

“That which we cannot say through an Emoticon, we must pass over in words.” – wiggy_wittgenstein2004@hotmail.com Image: miranda-im.org

MSN Messenger will actually be continuing its service in mainland China, where it still enjoys widespread use, though only two unique messages are allowed: “I love our country” and “I agree”. For the rest of us, though, our beloved interface will soon be no more, whenever Microsoft empties their Recycle Bin.

Goodbye, MSN. I know you’re off to that big instant messaging server in the Skype.

The Top 10 Worst Sex Scenes (that I can think of at the moment)

by Ben Browne, author of The Popcorn Bucket.

If you’re offended by movie shagging, don’t click the links.

Movie sex is very different from actual sex. You don’t need me to tell you that – you have brains. Most of it seems to take place in a parallel universe where bed sheets are L-shaped and there’s no such thing as cellulite or beer bellies. Where are the scenes where one of the lovers has to grovel and bargain for the act to even take place? Where’s the bit where one of them swears the other to secrecy and informs me that if I tell people about this, they’ll deny it? Guess that’s why they call it “Hollyweird”, eh?

Compiling this list, I realised there are very few films that actually contain decent sex. In your bog-standard film, they’re usually eye-rolling affairs that you have to endure in order for the film to move on. Sort of like unskippable YouTube adverts. At worst, they grind everything to a halt and ensnare you in a web of awkward hilarity. This isn’t a definitive, all-time, chiselled-into-concrete top ten, just ones that came to mind when posed this question. This isn’t in any particular order either, so don’t tell me number 6 should be higher or whatever.

1) Daredevil (2003):

Daredevil was a lacklustre superhero outing about a blind lawyer imbued with superhuman abilities who deals with court cases by day and deals out vigilante justice by night. Today it’s only really known as one of the lowest points in Ben Affleck’s career and for introducing the Goth warblings of the aptly-named Evanescence to the world.

Fucks funny: Future husband and wife, Affleck and Jennifer Garner, get their slow motion writhe on in front of a roaring log fire. They touch up each other’s battlescars in a big old heap of cliché. This isn’t the worst offender ever, it just neatly encapsulates most of the laughable tropes associated with love scenes. Last year’s The Dark Knight Rises has a similar scene, but is thankfully handled slightly better. If you could make it through the attached intellectually offensive Entertainment Tonight snippet, you’ll have picked up that we have studio interference to thank for this shite scene. Mercifully, when it came to the director’s cut, this scene is missing- just one of the many reasons the director’s cut is the superior version.

2) The Sweeney (2012):

(image: thefancarpet.com)

The Sweeney is a terrible film based on the gritty ’70s cop drama of the same name. It starred Ray “Cock-er-ney” Winstone and Ben “Plan B” Drew. Having been tasked to review it, I resented every minute of its runtime and couldn’t wait for its laughable finale (an underwhelming car chase through a dreary caravan park) to be over. You know you’re in trouble when even an appearance by Damian Lewis can’t save your film.

Fucks funny: This one is based on the participants, rather than the actual sex, so call me shallow if you want. I had to look away when Ray Winstone and the lovely Hayley Atwell nip off for some celebratory thrustings in a pub toilet. I’ve been a bit in love with Ms. Atwell since she played Peggy Carter in the underrated Captain America film. She’s bloody brilliant. So you can imagine the last thing I want to see is Gravelly Ray jamming his tongue down her throat and mindlessly humping her like a dirty old bulldog. Reading that back, I sound oddly possessive of Ms. Atwell. I’m not. It’s just some day she will be my wife. She WILL. I carved it into my arm and everything.

3) The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn – Part 2 (2012):

(image: nextmovie.com)

I don’t actually mind the Twilight franchise. Most of the films are godawful, but then I’m not in the target demographic. I wouldn’t call myself a fan by any stretch, but I certainly don’t possess the searing hatred for it people on the Internet seem to be consumed by. Yes, it is terribly written and yes, there are some insidious moral undercurrents about love and sex due to author Stephenie Meyer’s religious background, but it’s mostly pretty harmless. Breaking Dawn Part 1 also featured a terribrilliant sex scene where the couple destroy a four-poster bed in an Austin Powers-esque bit, but Part 2 takes the cake.

Fucks funny: Drippy newlyweds Bella and Edward (Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson) do the maritals in a quaint little cottage. Annoyingly, the film skimps on the details on how two undead beings with no blood running around their bodies can even have sex. It’d be like trying to poke a sock into a bucket of sand. Being rated a 12A, the filmmakers are severely limited in what they can actually show. Usually to get round this, they have the hackneyed close-up of a hand clenching the bedsheets to imply orgasm. Breaking Dawn Part 2 thinks it knows better than that by CGI-ing a golden sparkly mist around Bella’s head when she reaches O-Town. When this happened, I hooted with laughter. It’d be a genius bit of parody if it wasn’t so earnest.

4) The Rock (1996):

It’s the cool thing to hate Michael Bay and most of it is with good reason. However, the only reason I sometimes feel the urge to defend him is because he’s responsible for The Rock, one of my favourite films. If you haven’t seen this thick slab of fun starring Nicolas Cage, Sean Connery and Ed Harris, I urge you to do so. It’s your typical “Bayhem” atypically coupled with a strong script, genuinely great performances from the lead actors and a surprisingly complex and sympathetic villain.

Fucks funny: Any Nic Cage sex scene is a bad thing. I just don’t want to see or think of the guy on the job, quite frankly. Stanley Goodspeed’s rooftop love scene with his fiancée makes me cringe every time I see it. His oily commentary coupled with his infamous unhinged expressions cause me to smile and grimace at the same time. This is probably the least offensive entry on the list because the scene is predominantly played for laughs. Also, no-one in their right mind would get down to business to the strains of Elton John’s “Rocket Man”.

5) Monster’s Ball (2001):

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xw7sbv_halle-berry-sex-scene-monsters-ball_sexy

Monster’s Ball made some ripples back in 2001 but is now only really remembered for nabbing Halle Berry the Best Actress Oscar for her role as a Leticia, a woman whose husband is on death row. It’s one of those films that seems important at the time, gets nominated for a buttload of awards but fades away from the public consciousness like, well, Evanescence.

Fucks funny: In what should be a touching union of two lost souls finding comfort, Halle Berry and Billy Bob Thornton go at it hammer and tongs. I have two problems with this. One, Berry’s constant refrain of “make me feel good’ at the start which she strains out with like a toddler having a tantrum in a crowded shopping centre. Two- ol’ William Robert Thornton Esq. who goes through the motions grunting like a winded pensioner and with an unwavering look of boredom on his face.

6) Gigli (2003):

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x5baas_ben-affleck-jennifer-lopez-hot-love_shortfilms#.UUL_udaeOSo

Widely known as the other other low point in Ben Affleck’s career (Jersey Girl represent!) Gigli (pronounced jeel-yee, not “giggly” although the latter is more fitting) is a turgid romantic “comedy” that deals with some slapped together mobster shit. It starred Bennifer Mark I (J-Lo instead of Garner) and was rightfully a box-office bomb.

Fucks funny: After a millennia of leaden dialogue and zero chemistry between Larry (Da Fleck) and Ricki (Lopez), Ricki and Larry return to his apartment and after some painful exchanges and some kissing, J-Lo leans back on the bed and says one of the worst lines in the history of cinema (probably): “It’s turkey time…Gobble gobble!” which has got to be the least attractive cunnilingus come-on ever, apart from something like “Fancy frenching the clam?”. The resulting sex is yawnsome too, but you won’t notice it because you’ll still be reeling from les mots diabolique.

7) The Matrix Reloaded (2003):

Resulting in Phantom Menace levels of disappointment, the hugely anticipated sequel to game-changer The Matrix was released in 2003. The film had a strange preoccupation with the tedious “real world”, meaning audiences were forced to sit through long stretches of boring people talking about their boring problems instead of watching leather-clad badasses flipping off walls ‘n shit killing people multiple times over before they hit the ground. Revolutions is the stinkier turd though.

Fucks funny: Famous anti-actor Keanu Reeves gets hot and heavy with the none too thespianally gifted Carrie-Anne Moss whilst a city-wide underground rave goes on. Swirling dreadlocks, bare feet, nipply tanktops and sweaty slow-motion make this one a killer. The monotonous pulsing music doesn’t help either.

8) The Terminator (1984):

Now, I love me some Terminator. The first film is a stonking classic and Terminator 2: Judgment Day is one of the best sequels ever made. One of the things that separates The Terminator from its sequels is that at its heart, it’s a love story spanning time itself between Kyle Reese and Sarah Connor (Michael Biehn and Linda Hamilton). It’s actually quite touching, but will hurt your head if you think too hard about all the timey-wimey stuff.

Fucks funny: Reese and Connor get funky because they fancy each other and also because of the small matter of saving humanity blah blah blah. It’s the early ’80s so some things can be excused, but by gum, is this bad. The whole act is accompanied by a tender piano rendition of the kick-ass Terminator theme which doesn’t work at all. Also, Reese grips on to Connor’s tits like he’s holding a ladder steady for a builder. Coupled with the fact that they both make faces like the Shepherd’s Pie they had for dinner is repeating on them and you’ve got a fabulously bad love scene. Rest of the film still rocks the shit though.

9) Showgirls (1995):

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xfoqgx_showgirls-pool-scene_sexy#.UUMBAdaeOSp

Showgirls is a legendary capsule of cringe. Fresh from not being able to act in Saved by the Bell, Elizabeth Berkley transfers her unacting skills to play Nomi Malone, a drifter who just wants to make it big as a showgirl in Las Vegas. It’s an exploitative, entertainingly crappy film with plenty of nudity on display. You get the feeling it was always destined for a late night Channel 5 slot. It’s also worth checking out if you haven’t, if only for the scene I’m about to describe.

Fucks funny: Nomi seduces Zack (Kyle MacLachlan) and revenge-fucks him in a pool, tastefully surrounded by neon palm tree lights. It all starts fine enough, a little champagne drizzle here, an underwater suck there, but soon the pair unite and Nomi starts thrashing and flailing around like a dolphin having electroshock therapy. As with most of the scenes on this list, the soundtrack takes it to the next echelon of awful.

10) The Room (2003):

Source: theman-cave.com

Man, 2003 was a bad year for sex wasn’t it? I wonder what went wrong. Anyway, Showgirls may be bad, but The Room makes it look like Citizen Kane. This low-budget pet project of weirdo Tommy Wiseau is awful. Everything is off about this film. The dialogue, the acting, the story, the music- everything. It’s pretty much a comprehensive list of how not to make a film. Having said that, it’s funnier than 90% of the comedies out there. It has gained cult status as “the worst film of all time”, but I disrespectfully disagree. The Room, whilst apocalyptically terrible, manages to be incredibly enjoyable. I would say the worst films out there are the ones that aren’t even entertainingly bad. There are often special screenings of The Room around the country and you owe it to yourself to go to one. You’ll never forget it.

Fucks funny: Take your pick. Like the rest of the film, the sex scenes are fantastically shite. Everything is so unremittingly dreadful from the atrocious music to the painful acting. Even the humping is off, at times it looks like he’s thrusting into her thigh or just past her altogether. How bad do you have to be if you can’t figure out what goes where? My personal vote is for any time we see Wiseau’s arse. I could have quite happily lived without knowing what it looked like.

The Valentine’s Day Massacre

By Emina Sabic

Congratulations, you managed to get through the Christmas season and the dreariness that is January without stabbing yourself in the eye! Well done. The days are starting to get slightly longer and now you can draw a sigh of relief and count down the hours ‘til spring. Right? Wrong, my friends. First you need to navigate your way through this one special day in February that fills every sane human being with dread: Valentine’s Day. A day for lovers according to the gushing teenage girls on my bus but everywhere I look I see panicky people with wild, crazy eyes. Remember that scene in Mean Girls where everyone’s just like the animals around the watering hole? Except in this case the watering hole is the M&S flowers section and the animals are middle aged suit wearing men.

Roses are red, violets are blue, insult my music taste and I will cut you (Image: wikipedia.org)

What really gets me is all the hysteria. Come mid-February most normal people are turning into mentalists, nostrils flaring at anything pink, red or fluffy that crosses their path. Why should there only be one day of the year devoted to showing someone how much you love them? It all screams of clichés and a hopelessly childish need for attention and validation. Kind of like those couples we all have as Facebook friends who insist on updating their statuses gushing about their “other half” (don’t even get me started on that term) and writing puke provoking sweet nothings on each other’s walls. Surely you have a mobile phone for that? Private messaging? Or, I dunno, just TALK TO EACH OTHER. More often than not, it seems that those who flaunt it the most are the ones who are most insecure about their relationship, as they inevitably break up two weeks later (and then we have all those passive-aggressive facebook statuses to look forward to). Or perhaps they just like the attention? Don’t get me wrong, a few pictures and sweet words are lovely but it’s called a private life for a reason.

I said pink roses, bitch! (Image: myspace.com)

Also, come February 14^th, why is it suddenly all about underwear? Please put on an overpriced, unflattering piece of polyester that will make you feel about as comfortable as the Pope at Pride. Hurrah! Break out the pink champagne to match the £50 you just spent on underwear that will never be worn again! In my experience sexiness as well as romance are things that are quite personal and unique to each person, so why Valentine’s Day marketing is all about underwear and cheap roses is beyond my grasp. Not to mention that all the cards and adverts you see seem to indicate that only heterosexual couples should do the whole romance-and-shag thing – the values that accompany this mother of all non-holidays are quite frankly a bit tedious and alienate a large part of the population. But hey, as long as you get a card with an over the top message all is well, non?

We hear Glen Coco is skilled in the art of lurve. (Image: hellogiggles.com)

The amount of women I saw this morning on my commute wearing Valentine’s Day inspired outfits such as tights with love hearts and variations of red garments would astonish you, no jokes. These V-day fanatics smugly trying to catch the eye of anyone deeply immersed in their book, Metro or morning game of Wordfeud, do their notions of romance really culminate once a year on a gloomy day in February? Or is it the opposite, as a friend believes, that the 14^th of February is actually a day for the otherwise non-romantics to exhibit their romance bone? I am inclined to believe the latter.

My eyes! My eyes! (Image: flickr.com)

So I suppose what I’m really trying to convey here is that we should all stay away from the pink fluffy madness this day represents. There should not only be one day of the year where we show our appreciation towards that very special someone in our life. Bring them a coffee and some tulips on a Sunday morning, make a playlist with songs you think they would appreciate or take them out to dinner in the middle of the week. Spontaneity is the most romantic gesture of all, and let’s face it, there is nothing spontaneous about Valentine’s Day at all.

PERIOD PAINS: the woes of too many costume dramas

by Lily Rae

I feel like I’ve been bludgeoned in the head with period dramas lately.

Despite being bombarded with sepia-filtered stuff like Call the Midwife, Downton Abbey, Mr Selfridge, The Paradise and god knows how many more sexually frustrated romps through a liberal definition of history for a good few months now, it only really hit home last night – when, for a reason known only to myself and Hugh Jackman’s eyebrows, I ended up watching sodding Kate and Leopold on Netflix.

image: fanpop.com

From the perspective of the sane, Kate and Leopold is a total turd of a film. Kate (Meg Ryan) is a ~BUSINESS WOMAN~ who is totally miserable and coincidentally recently single. She’s massively successful and owns a glorious apartment in New York. Despite her success she’s mean and pathetic because we all know that a woman being actually fulfilled by her career is only a fairytale. Leopold (Hugh Jackman) is a cravatted babe from that period in history which inspired everyone to begin blog posts with ‘it is a truth universally acknowledged’. He’s also blessed with an accent that could, and does, melt pants purely by purring the phrase “fresh, creamery butter.” He jumps off a bridge and ends up in modern-day New York (obviously). It turns out Leopold is the archetypal gentleman; he stands up when you leave the table, he stampedes after a bag-thief on a white horse, he quotes Thucydides before kissing you – he’s totally perfect. Then there are non-sexual hijinks and he and Kate end up falling in love and she ABANDONS HER CAREER AND HER GLORIOUS NEW YORK APARTMENT and zips back in time to an era where she can’t even vote yet – but she does get Captain Butterpants. Wahey!

It’s even worse than it sounds.

So what does this period-rom-com-mutant-ninja-mess have to do with Proper Period Dramas? Well, for all its crap plot and bizarre messages about What Women Want, I felt compelled to sit up til 2am watching it – something I can’t bring myself to do with clever-people’s-telly like Downton Abbey and Parade’s End. There’s something more wholesome about Kate and Leopold than the critically acclaimed writing and proud-to-be-Britishness of all the BBC period dramas we’ve been chewing on recently –and it’s because, despite the silly plot and the awful writing, Kate and Leopold does not want to give the British Empire a blowie – in fact, it makes fun of it – and is not obsessed with the ludicrously rich and posh. It’s a crap love story and it sure as hell isn’t pretending to be anything else. (Although it would have made more sense to keep Leopold in the present – then Kate could have her job and her boyfriend without having to deal with a century of gender discrimination.)

But British period dramas? Mr Selfridge, The Paradise, Call the Midwife, Blandings, Upstairs Downstairs, the aforementioned Parade’s End and Downton Abbey – I just don’t get the fuss.

There are stately homes, lavish jewellery and costumes, plummy English accents, servants that sound like Catherine Tate, Fallen Women, characters called ‘Chummy’ who say things like “top hole!” and “back in time for Horlicks!” and above all a totally freakish obsession with hierarchy and wealth. There’s always so much money and so little action and once, just once, I’d really like to see something successful and groundbreaking that wasn’t set in ye olden days. Class is a painful and overdone topic, sucked of its importance by virtue of being only ever discussed by the people who lurk around on Comment is Free – and it’s all very well to talk about the working classes Back In Them Days, and giggle over the plucky little servants, but they’re totally unwilling to engage with what’s going on today, or in the future, like Black Mirror and Misfits did. It’s not bad TV – it’s just than no-one ever slates it because’s usually a literary adaptation and has posh accents.

image: the mirror.co.uk because everyone lives like this in the UK.

It’s the same with vintage fashion, the worldwide obsession with Mr Darcy, and the resurgence of *dry-heave* cupcakes and tea parties. It’s like we’re making the British Empire trendy again without really acknowledging it, or at least admitting that we’re totally wet for wealth. Ladies wearing pretty frocks and not having rights and stuff. Men being dark, brooding bastards. Poor plain ladies being hopelessly in love with Captain Butterpants and then just ousted in favour of Meg Ryan. Have we all conveniently forgotten that, for the majority of people, life back then was shit?

British period dramas seem to neglect the abject miseries of history, like fighting for rights and revolutions and war and suffering, and focus instead on trying to make a certain era in British history seem cutesy and nostalgic. It’s totally about NATIONAL PRIDE (which is creepy in itself), which you can only have in a suit or a pretty frock, and it takes itself so incredibly seriously. At least Kate and Leopold made fun of that ludicrous Austen-ideal by having jokes about poo and being generally rubbish.

Which brings me neatly onto the next thing. THE MEN.

Of course they’re just called ‘period dramas’ because they’re set in different periods of history (in this case, either the romantic period or the bloody late 19th and early 20th centuries). Still, I can’t help but think that the term ‘period drama’ is so called because it’s something you supposedly cry at when you’re on your period. Frequently disappointed by the graceless, charmless, oversexed lads of today, heterosexual women’s needs are, in theory, better served by fictional characters. Fictional male characters can be whatever you want them to be. They don’t have bands or meetings or appointments at the clinic. Instead they’re intense and passionate, the fire of their ardour only suppressed by the stifling influence of their cravats. They gaze into your eyes and recite poetry and drag the good name of their family through the mud just to be with you. Part of me wants to vomit, but another part of me wants to kick down the door and drag Leopold by the hair to pastures green and sexy.

image: fanpop.com
Smiling is for plebs.

I can only assume that period dramas are written with a specific type of woman in mind. I don’t think it’s particularly inaccurate to suggest that Leopold is a ludicrous caricature of the ideal man – he’s well spoken, he appreciates Da Arts, he’s handsome, sophisticated, quiet and dignified – he’s basically just a nice guy. Mr Darcy without the sulk, Heathcliff without the psychotic episodes. However, what makes all these men the same is that they’re fabulously wealthy and fabulously sophisticated. Here is a man who, once you’ve tamed him, (because it’s always a good idea to suggest to women that they can change someone with abusive tendencies) will keep you in pretty frocks and longing glances for the rest of your life.

In a sense, then, period dramas are more about the girl ‘getting the guy’ than the other way around. Which is good. Women aren’t rewards anymore and they will take what they want – unfortunately, he’s always a vile Tory bastard, and they have to literally wear down the grumpy, belligerent aristocrat to get him to admit that he loves her. After he marries her, and they’ve sorted out a dowry (which an entire episode will be devoted to), she’ll just become a sweet little wife. Dreams achieved, ambitions met. Hurk.

I don’t have anything against historical drama, but there’s a lot that gets conveniently left out in favour of insipid romances and boring family discussions about money purely because British history has to be something you can ‘snuggle up in front of’. Am I lowbrow for finding British period largely dull, passive, repetitive, and totally happy to ignore interesting things in favour of primness and chastity? You finish watching one and are desperate for someone to die or have sex or turn into a lion or start playing a banjo – anything that doesn’t involve talking about who’s going to inherit a colossal fortune. Remember Tipping the Velvet? That had lesbians in! And not just lesbians – lesbian sex! It was raunchy! It was fun! It was about a working class girl from Whitstable! Leave the toffs alone and come and hang out with the oyster girls!

My other half complained the other day that there wasn’t anything in a period drama that might cater to a ‘man’s interests’. Well, sir. As a female with interests outside of eligible bachelors, babies and frocks, there’s not much in it there that interests me either.

MORE POETRY! EXPLAINED!

By Lily Rae

Hello you fine fellows! Ah, there’s nothing better than sitting inside on a snowy day with a cup of steaming poetry and a nice chocolate biscuit. But those fancy schmancy lines of devastating poetic beauty can sometimes be a bit bewildering! So let’s see if we can’t untangle ‘em, eh?

TODAY! Let’s examine some EMILY DICKINSON, some CHRISTINA ROSSETTI, and some T. S. ELIOT.

First up: there’s no-one in the world like Emileeeeeeee.

image: gradesaver.com

Fun fact: I went to Emily Dickinson’s house in Amherst, Massachusetts. She wasn’t in.

I had no time to hate, because

I HAVE NO TIME FOR SHENANIGANS. NO TIME.

The grave would hinder me

If I allowed myself to start hating things I would DIE BEFORE I FINISHED.

And life was not so ample I

LIFE IS TOO SHORT FOR YOUR BULLSHIT

Could finish enmity.

TOO. SHORT.

Nor had I time to love, but since

What? Well. I mean yeah, maybe I could be nicer, but I am just so busy.

Some industry must be,

This bookshelf isn’t going to build itself, you know.

This little toil of love, I thought

Oh for god’s sake fine we can go out sometime

Was large enough for me

BUT JUST THE ONCE.

 

NEXT: Christina Rossetti.

image: enotes.com

Fun fact: Christina Rossetti wrote the words to In The Bleak Midwinter!

I never said I loved you, John:

John. This is getting ridiculous.

Why will you tease me day by day,

It’s 2am.

And wax a weariness to think upon

You are drunk and I am tired.

With always “do” and “pray”?

You come round here, mumbling the same old nonsense

You Know I never loved you, John;

Look, we had one decent weekend

No fault of mine made me your toast:

– I SAID I WAS SORRY ABOUT THE TOAST –

Why will you haunt me with a face as wan

Take that face off, John.

As shows an hour-old ghost?

No-one’s died.

I dare say Meg or Moll would take

Why don’t you go ask one of your WHORES

Pity upon you, if you’d ask:

For a sympathy cuddle

And pray don’t remain single for my sake

OH DON’T THINK I DON’T KNOW ABOUT THEM

Who can’t perform the task.

Guess I’m just not SLUTTY ENOUGH FOR YOU.

I have no heart?-Perhaps I have not;

Oh cry me a river John

But then you’re mad to take offence

It is not my fault you’re clearly mental.

That don’t give you what I have not got:

John you know perfectly well what I’m talking about.

Use your common sense.

Dick.

Let bygones be bygones:

We can still be friends

Don’t call me false, who owed not to be true:

IF YOU STOP BEING SUCH AN ARSE

I’d rather answer “No” to fifty Johns

But to be honest if you and I were the last people on earth

Than answer “Yes” to you.

I’d try and mate with a vaguely attractive sheep.

Let’s mar our pleasant days no more,

We had fun

Song-birds of passage, days of youth:

But that was ages ago

Catch at today, forget the days before:

Build a bridge

I’ll wink at your untruth.

And get over it.

Let us strike hands as hearty friends;

Now put your pants back on John

No more, no less; and friendship’s good:

I’m telling you as a friend

Only don’t keep in view ulterior ends, And points not understood

No-one. Wants. To see it.

In open treaty. Rise above

You’re better than this, John!

Quibbles and shuffling off and on:

I’m so bored of arguing about it

Here’s friendship for you if you like; but love,-

Look we can try and stay friends but if it’s a shag you’re after

No, thank you, John.

In the words of Bartleby the Scrivener: LOL, NO.

 

And finally! TS Eliot: Whispers of Immortality.

image: blogspot.com

FUN FACT: when TS Eliot incarcerated his first wife, Vivien, in an insane asylum for chronic PMS, all his poetry went to shit and he wrote the hit musical CATS!. Sort of.

Webster was much possessed by death

Webster was an emo kid

And saw the skull beneath the skin

Who thought about really deep things

And breastless creatures underground

Like, imagine if people had no tits

Leaned backward with a lipless grin

Skeletons don’t have tits. Or lips. DEEP.

Daffodil bulbs instead of balls

And imagine if you had daffodils…

Stared from the sockets of the eyes!

…INSTEAD OF EYEBALLS.

He knew that thought clings round dead limbs

Eh? Eh? Imagine, eh?

Tightening its lusts and luxuries

I bet it sucks to be dead.

 

Donne, I suppose, was such another

And don’t even get me STARTED on John Donne

Who found no substitute for sense

Proper fun sponge.

To seize and clutch and penetrate

He’s a bit touchy-feely.

Expert beyond experience,

Total know-it-all.

 

He knew the anguish of the marrow

He knew a lot about marrow.

The ague of the skeleton;

He knew a lot about bones in general, actually.

No contact possible to flesh

For example. Because they have no skin

Allayed the fever of the bone.

Skeletons are generally miserable.

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye

Anyway CATS!

Is underlined for emphasis

He is quiet he is small he is black – from his ears to the tip of his tay-ull

Uncorseted, her friendly bust

God, imagine if cats had tits.

Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

…I just went to a dark place in my head.

The couched Brazilian jaguar

OH, WELL, I NEVER

Compels the scampering marmoset

WAS THERE EEEEEEEVER

With subtle effluence of cat;

A CAT SO CLEVER AS

Grishkin has a maisonette;

MAGICAL MIST-AH MISTOPHELES

 

The sleek Brazilian jaguar

You know, these wildlife documentaries

Does not in its arboreal gloom

About giant cats in trees

Distil so rank a feline smell

Make you realise how weird it is

As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

That little pussycats and big jaguars are related… BUT THEY ARE.

And even the Abstract Entities

Eh?

Circumambulate her charm

Long word

But our lot crawls between dry ribs

Death and cats are somehow related

To keep our metaphysics warm.

Do you know what metaphysics are?… DUN DUN DUUUUUUUN