The beginnings of My Bronson can be traced through My Bronson's ancient and beautiful poetry. Poetry that was ghost written for a future Bronx teacher's 17th and 18th Century English Poetry class. A class held in the hallowed halls of Barnard College and presided over by an illiterate protestant was the forum for the first public unveiling of what will go down in history (and go down in the back of cabs and in single occupancy bathrooms) as The First Sonnets.
Bronson was ready, the world was clearly not. Even less ready however, were the protestant and his long and hairy legged minions. The genesis of most greatness has been met with obstacles and My Bronson's is no different. Jordan got cut from his high school basketball team, Einstein failed algebra, and Bronson received a check minus for his effort.
The Work Performed;
Sonnet 5757
Dish out your elixir young peddler there,
Ask not my problems and pay you no heed
To my tears or their base for I can’t bare
Wanton want or hateful falsehoods decreed.
Understood is your intent, simpleton,
O life lived behind bars is such a crime!
No experience, just news of fights won,
Wet naked bodies explained out of time,
You can give advice as if from a dream,
Not from reality and not to me!
My lady now denies our old steam,
Help drown these sorrows so I cannot see,
Alas I cheated and she cracked the whip
Thanks for asking: you get a twopence tip.
Sonnet 6969
Your body caressed with blindfolded hands,
Sight unseen of thine milky skin beneath,
Knowing your whimsy falls to my demands.
I, bold love’s tyrant do my sword unsheathe,
Slay untimely virtue in maidens ripe;
Though surrendered upon polite request.
Knavish fathers quibble and brothers gripe
As you my round rigid Robyn lay nest.
Violet are your eyes, Pat goes your heart.
Sue as lawyers do, like Lillys in May,
My wordy contract with your Kat like part;
I await you humbly, what dost thou say?
Nay, love me my sweet without baneful quiz,
Embrace me now, whatever your name is.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Guided Youth
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1 comment:
I'm convinced the only reason we are made to read centuries-old literature is to mock it and surpass it. Certainly, after Barnard recognizes their collective embarrassment for degrading such brilliance, they will pledge their entire endowment for the sacred right to chisel "Charles Bronson" in the Butler Library's facade alongside Aristotle, Plato, and Herodotus.
However, Charles Bronson would prefer grabbing the spackle himself and filling in those giant name-etchings because, similar to what he did in these poems, Bronson essentially erased literary and cultural history and began another anew.
Indeed, these poems have subtleties scholars will argue over for decades. These poems have timeless, Biblical themes such as rocking chicks for good and for evil, as well as a little something for everyone in between. So, in these two sonnets reside the meaning of life. After you read, if you close your eyes and concentrate on your third eye, you will see a hand with middle finger and thumb pulsing against each other. You will feel a tickle in your loins and be complete, if only for a moment. And then, coming to, your eyes will see a new image, that of Charles Bronson bodyslamming Shakespeare, and all will be right with you once again.
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