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[Escape Goat]

Whilst both "Alexander" and "Brokeback Mountain" seem to be chickening out on including boy-on-boy lip action between Colin Farrell/Jared Leto and Jake Gyllenhaal/Heath Ledger respectively, it's good to see Johnny Depp at least showing the others he's got far more balls, and looks to be going fully at it in his next movie with sex, syphillis and rude jokes galore.

MSNBC and AICN report that the upcoming Depp/John Malkovich flick "The Libertine" about 17th Century bisexual poet John Wilmot, also known as the Earl of Rochester, features some pretty heavy duty stuff. Lots of girls (and many men) are going to envy relatively unknown British actor Rupert Friend who gets into some pretty heavy making out with Depp's character.

It also seems that in one scene, "Depp's character walks into the House of Lords and spies an adversary. The Lord shouts 'Coward!' really loudly at Wilmot, to which Wilmot (Depp) paused, turned to the Lord, move up extremely close to him, then said, "My Lord, you cut me down I must confess, but in your mouth, my balls must rest," all the while running one of his two canes up the inside of his adversary's thigh". Sounds like fun.


roofles

 

[Dan]

Who says those others have less graphic homosexual content because of actors' wishes?

 

[LinesInTheSand]

"My Lord, you cut me down I must confess, but in your mouth, my balls must rest,"

wtF?
Worst movie ever.

 

[Claus]

Is that iambic pentameter?

 

[Saint Cornelius]

My wife will be frigging herself when I tell her about this. We have a deal: she can fuck Johnny Depp if the situation every arises, and I can fuck Patricia Arquette. BUT THAT'S IT

 

[Freestyler]

Whilst both "Alexander" and "Brokeback Mountain" seem to be chickening out on including boy-on-boy lip action between Colin Farrell/Jared Leto and Jake Gyllenhaal/Heath Ledger respectively

You mean there'll be none at all ?

 

[evil ways]

"My Lord, you cut me down I must confess, but in your mouth, my balls must rest,"

 

[White Man]

John Wilmot, also known as the Earl of Rochester

One of my favorite of the dirty Restoration poets. Care for a sample? This has always been my favorite:

The Disabled Debauchee

As some brave admiral, in former war,
Deprived of force, but pressed with courage still,
Two rival fleets appearing from afar,
Crawls to the top of an adjacent hill;

From whence (with thoughts full of concern) he views
The wise and daring conduct of the fight,
And each bold action to his mind renews
His present glory, and his past delight;

From his fierce eyes, flashes of rage he throws,
As from black clouds when lightning breaks away,
Transported, thinks himself amidst his foes,
And absent yet enjoys the bloody day;

So when my days of impotence approach,
And I'm by pox and wine's unlucky chance,
Driven from the pleasing billows of debauch,
On the dull shore of lazy temperance,

My pains at last some respite shall afford,
Whilst I behold the battles you maintain,
When fleets of glasses sail about the board,
From whose broadsides volleys of wit shall rain.

Nor shall the sight of honourable scars,
Which my too-forward valour did procure,
Frighten new-listed soldiers from the wars.
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.

Should hopeful youths (worth being drunk) prove nice,
And from their fair inviters meanly shrink,
'Twould please the ghost of my departed vice,
If at my counsel they repent and drink.

Or should some cold-complexioned set forbid,
With his dull morals, our night's brisk alarms,
I'll fire his blood by telling what I did,
When I was strong and able to bear arms.

I'll tell of whores attacked, their lords at home,
Bawds' quarters beaten up, and fortress won,
Windows demolished, watches overcome,
And handsome ills by my contrivance done.

Nor shall our love-fits, Cloris, be forgot,
When each the well-looked link-boy strove t'enjoy,
And the best kiss was the deciding lot:
Whether the boy fucked you, or I the boy.

With tales like these I will such heat inspire,
As to important mischief shall incline.
I'll make them long some ancient church to fire,
And fear no lewdness they're called to by wine.

Thus statesman-like, I'll saucily impose,
And safe from danger valiantly advise,
Sheltered in impotence, urge you to blows,
And being good for nothing else, be wise.

Lord John Wilmot
-----

He was hardcore. Died of syphillis. There's a lot of dirty 17th century poetry. Some of it very dirty.

There's also one where he refers to his penis as a 'cunt-post.' Let me pull out a Norton Anthology and see if I could find it.

EDIT: Found the one I was talking about, The Imperfect Enjoyment. It's rather long so I'll just post the good part. I was a little off.

Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away
May strangury and stone thy days attend
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.

 

[White Man]

SOMEBODY READ THE BLOODY DIRTY POETRY!!!

I could finally drop some college knowledge and you tarts don't even care!

 

[fart]

poetry sucks

 

[White Man]

You hurt me, fart. I shall seek solace in thai food and hydrocortisone.

 

[Ninja Scooter]

"My Lord, you cut me down I must confess, but in your mouth, my balls must rest,"

.

for some fucked up reason, i pictured Mumra saying that during his transformation bit on Thundercats.

 

[ArcadeStickMonk]

Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking-post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt,
May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away
May strangury and stone thy days attend
May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.

THAT's in my Norton?! What course is that ever going to be used for? I've taken multiple English Lit surveys and this shit never came up. Worst we got was the baby eating.

 

[border]

Thanks for the disgusting poetry! I didn't think they put such fulth in Norton Anthologies. Which one is that from?

 

[White Man]

From an older edition of The Norton Anthology of Poetry. Maybe 20 years old. It's an edition from before the whole political correctness fad. I'm sure some of the current Norton Anthologies of English Literature have Wilmot poetry. Almost all of his works have at least one 'HOLY SHIT' moment. I didn't even know the word 'cunt' existed in the 17th century.

I learned about this lad during a course on Restoration poetry. After mid-terms, by prof decided to give us a break by having a 'sex week.' Good times. Hard to believe, but sexual repression wasn't quite as widespread 300 years ago. Wilmot was able to get published without many problems. Today, if I wrote that stuff, I'd be blacklisted.

Also, Swift was basically a fecal fetishist.

 

[White Man]

Jonathan Swift, The Lady's Dressing Room

Five hours, (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Arrayed in lace, brocades and tissues.
Strephon, who found the room was void,
And Betty otherwise employed,
Stole in, and took a strict survey,
Of all the litter as it lay;
Whereof, to make the matter clear,
An inventory follows here.
And first a dirty smock appeared,
Beneath the armpits well besmeared.
Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide,
And turned it round on every side.
On such a point few words are best,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest,
But swears how damnably the men lie,
In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
Now listen while he next produces
The various combs for various uses,
Filled up with dirt so closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt.
A paste of composition rare,
Sweat, dandruff, powder, lead and hair;
A forehead cloth with oil upon't
To smooth the wrinkes on her front;
Here alum flower to stop the steams,
Exhaled from sour unsavory streams,
There night-gloves made of Tripsy's hide,
Bequeathed by Tripsy when she died,
With puppy water, beauty's help
Distilled from Tripsy's darling whelp;
Here gallpots and vials placed,
Some filled with washes, some with paste,
Some with pomatum, paints and slops,
And ointments good for scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin stands,
Fouled with the scouring of her hands;
The basin takes whatever comes
The scrapings of her teeth and gums,
A nasty compound of all hues,
For here she spits, and here she spews.
But oh! it turned poor Strephon's bowels,
When he beheld and smelled the towels,
Begummed, bemattered, and beslimed
With dirt, and sweat, and earwax grimed.
No object Strephon's eye escapes,
Here petticoats in frowzy heaps;
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot
All varnished o'er with snuff and snot.
The stockings why should I expose,
Stained with the marks of stinking toes;
Or greasy coifs and pinners reeking,
Which Celia slept at least a week in?
A pair of tweezers next he found
To pluck her brows in arches round,
Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
Or on her chin like bristles grow.
The virtues we must not let pass,
Of Celia's magnifying glass.
When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't
It showed visage of a giant.
A glass that can to sight disclose,
The smallest worm in Celia's nose,
And faithfully direct her nail
To squeeze it out from head to tail;
For catch it nicely by the head,
It must come out alive or dead.
Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
And must you needs describe the chest?
That careless wench! no creature warn her
To move it out from yonder corner;
But leave it standing full in sight
For you to exercise your spite.
In vain the workman showed his wit
With rings and hinges counterfeit
To make it seem in this disguise
A cabinet to vulgar eyes;
For Strephon ventured to look in,
Resolved to go through thick and thin;
He lifts the lid, there needs no more,
He smelled it all the time before.
As from within Pandora's box,
When Epimetheus op'd the locks,
A sudden universal crew
Of human evils upwards flew;
He still was comforted to find
That Hope at last remained behind;
So Strephon lifting up the lid,
To view what in the chest was hid.
The vapors flew from out the vent,
But Strephon cautious never meant
The bottom of the pan to grope,
And foul his hands in search of Hope.
O never may such vile machine
Be once in Celia's chamber seen!
O may she better learn to keep
Those "secrets of the hoary deep!"
As mutton cutlets, prime of meat,
Which though with art you salt and beat
As laws of cookery require,
And toast them at the clearest fire;
If from adown the hopeful chops
The fat upon a cinder drops,
To stinking smoke it turns the flame
Pois'ning the flesh from whence it came,
And up exhales a greasy stench,
For which you curse the careless whench;
So things, which must not be expressed,
When plumped into the reeking chest,
Send up an excremental smell
To taint the parts from whence they fell.
The petticoats and gown perfume,
Which waft a stink round every room.
Thus finishing his grand survey,
Disgusted Strephon stole away
Repeating in his amorous fits,
Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!
But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping
Soon punished Strephon for his peeping;
His foul imagination links
Each Dame he sees with all her stinks:
And, if unsavory odors fly,
Conceives a lady standing by:
All women his description fits,
And both ideas jump like wits:
By vicious fancy coupled fast,
And still appearing in contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon blind
To all the charms of female kind;
Should I the queen of love refuse,
Because she rose from stinking ooze?
To him that looks behind the scene,
Satira's but some pocky quean.
When Celia in her glory shows,
If Strephon would but stop his nose
(Who now so impiously blasphemes
Her ointments, daubs, and paints and creams,
Her washes, slops, and every clout,
With which he makes so foul a rout)
He soon would learn to think like me,
And bless his ravished sight to see
Such order from confusion sprung,
Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.


---
Sorry it's so long, but it's actually a pretty cool and easy to understand poem.

More difficult to say about Wilmot, but this one will definitely be in any Norton Anthology that covers english poetry. It's a bona fide classic.