This Was the Species that Was

From madknits:

1. Is your LJ name a reflexion of your own uncut state, or a statement of wannabe-ness, or a statement of your fondness of headcheese?
2. Anonymous 4: like 'em? love 'em? hate 'em? and why?
3. Favourite sixteenth century composer?
4. Let's talk about sex: when you are with a man with whom you are enjoying carnal pleasures, what do you like most in the world, and what do you dislike most?

J'ai soutaité plaintivement des questions
Et comme une psychologue, on m'en a bombardé!
Mais ça c'est bon, ça me soulage d'inaction:
Et de répondre à tous, je bien essayerai!
Moi, je suis circonci—comme l'enfant J. Seuss,
Mon propre glans du pénis n'est point encrassé
Du smegma, parce qu'on a volé mon cher prépuce
À ma naissance! Oui, je l'ai toujours manqué!
Mais non, pour ce fromage, je n'ai aucun penchant.
J'adore mieux les Quatre femmes Anonymes,
Ces belles oiseaux portant le nom coïncidant
Que le compositeur de loin le plus sublime
Du 16ème siècle. Enfin, pour mon recul:
Rien est mieux que perdant ma langue dans ton cul.


[I'm sure there's some horrendous Frenssh in there, and a couple extra syllables, but.]

Anyway, that's not exactly fair, because a few corollary questions went unanswered: I like Anonymous 4 based on my ownership of and listing repeatedly to precisely one record of theirs, "On Yoolis Night"—but if everything else they've ever done sucks, I'll keep liking them for this stunning collection of medieval carols.

And I lied about thinking "Anon." the best 16th century composer. It's hard to pin down just one; Palestrina is rightfully worshiped, but if such adulation takes glory from (say) Victoria's star, well, I've got some grumping to do. Ditto Lassus, Gombert, Stoltzer, Giovanni Gabrielli, and that sublime psychotic, Gesualdo.

Finally, I suppose the thing I like least in bed is when somebody who clearly likes playing table tennis with his own huevos assumes everybody else likes the same and starts manhandling mine accordingly. I have one of the most sensitive scrota of anyone I've ever met, and apart from oral stimulation of my perineum, there is absolutely no possible pleasuring of my balls, which go from indifferent to OW QUIT IT! at warp speed.

Ok, ok, I didn't post a sonnet last week, but I posted TWO the week before, dammit. This one I started writing in the wee small hours of Wednesday morning, and finished it sometime Saturday evening... or was it Sunday? Dunno, don't care.

Remember how I said I woke up early last Wednesday with the crazy idea of constraining a sonnet by more than just rhyme scheme and meter? Ok, so read this first:

Knabes Wisdoum
As we in our age did our catechisms,
So must angelic youth attend its sound,
Averting doubt and their dour age's schisms.
Fortunately, if your ascent is bound
By barren, pious natterlings of "truth,"
Abstemious and dyspeptic, you (and we!)
Discount all their foul rants, lest witty youth
Fall prey, without prayer, into dullardry.
Thy previous attentions turn askew:
Imply no umbrage; wish no curate ill.
You are, in thought, a devious mastermind.
You bandy cents without a fetid sou,
And splendid courage is your way defin'd.
Your adept's singsongs ugly chants bestill.

( Now see here. )