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biscuitsngravie · 10 months

Text

"not yet."

cw: stsg x reader, fem!reader, smut, piv sex, fingering, come inside its fun inside, established relationship, edging, voyeurism

wc: 1876

How long has it been? You couldn’t tell. Every drag of Gojo’s cock against your gummy walls feels tortuously pleasurable, causing you to intermittently spasm around him, eliciting a gasp or curse each time. His hips barely move in what can be called strokes as they stutter with each attempt. You can’t bear to look at him, your own mind fuzzy with archaic math equations that you fill it with to focus on Geto’s words and not how close you are.

“That’s right… keep fucking her just like that….” Geto purrs from the comfort of his chair to the right of the bed. He watches and sees everything, the way you grip the sheets, how your toes curl, and how you can’t seem to care about the drool beginning to leak out the side of your mouth. He’s equally as attentive to Gojo with each break in his stride, and how his strokes are getting more and more uneven. He watches as once fluffy bangs stick to his forehead, donned with a sheen of sweat that’s dripping down his chin and onto you.

Neither of you can see the sight, though, both wrapped up in the crevices of your own minds, only responding to the sound of Geto’s voice as you await instructions. It was simple at first, him watching you two make out in the living room with slight amusement, always infatuated with the desperation at which you devour each other. He gave a small suggestion, “Maybe we should take this to the bedroom?” Nothing more, nothing less, but you two easily complied, too caught up in the throbbing between you to notice that his “suggestions,” started sounding more and more like commands.

“Don’t take it off yet, I like her tits in that bra.”

“So eager for dick, are we? Can’t you wait ‘till he at least takes his shirt off?”

“Put it in nice and slow… yeah, just like that.”

“Don’t come.”

The last comment solidified what this really was: a game. You two, so incredibly hungry for every part of each other (and Geto when he humbly obliged), fucking as needily and frequently as rabbits; you two who couldn’t bear to hold back at any occasion. Until Geto said so.

Every time you felt that coil tighten, your soul and body begging for release, it was snapped away by the gentlest utters of “Not yet.” Gojo was on the edge himself, though he was more inclined to verbally share his distaste.

“Fuck, Suguru! Come on! Can’t you just fu—”

One. It took one look from Geto to silence Gojo’s incessant yelling, and he’s been silently cursing to himself ever since, groaning with each stolen release, just as shamelessly as you.

So here you are, stuck in mating press for Geto’s satisfaction as you try to avoid eye contact with Gojo who’s doing the same, both knowing neither of you would be strong enough to resist your bodies’ requests if it happened. Much to the dissatisfaction of the ringmaster who was prompt to correct his monkeys.

Geto sits fully clothed in the chair, painfully aware of the way you two shut your eyes or have them dance around the room. At first he hummed with a hint of amusement, mirth dripping from his voice as he demanded suggested that Gojo go deeper. Deeper. But now it’s become too mind numbingly boring to no longer see you teeter near the edge, but avoid it all together. So who is he but an instigator when he comments, “Ahh, Satoru… look at how good she takes it. Tiny little pussy can’t help but swallow your cock, huh?”

Gojo may be the strongest, but he’s weak when it comes to you, and even weaker when it comes to this. He knows it’s a trap. He knows it, but a peek couldn’t hurt, right? Every nerve ending in him feels as though it jolts when he looks down to see your puffy lips around him, swollen and sore from all the teasing from earlier, helplessly and willingly framing the way he impales you over and over. It’s so messy, the wetness of your combined juices staining your pelvises, sticky and frothy as they form a ring around the base of his dick.

If it weren’t for his balls being so unbelievably heavy and agonizingly full, he’d have sworn he came already, white painted over your thighs and dripping down the crack of your ass and onto the bed. His own heart jumps as he momentarily fantasizes what it’d look like to fill you up with as you come, wondering if it would even have room to stay in, or gush out and sink into the duvet. His body shudders with need that’s stronger than any desire and he almost collapses on top of you, holding himself mere inches away by bracing himself on his forearms.

The action causes you to squeeze around him when he unintentionally slams further into you, teasing your cervix. You can’t help but wrap your legs around his waist, letting yourself relish in the way he ruts into you like a dog, squeezing his dick with every entry and unabashedly chasing your high as you become delirious. Your clit aches for attention, the throbbing is becoming unbearable as you just want something, anything, more.

“F-fuck… baby let up, will ya?” Gojo’s voice shakes as he attempts a lighthearted laugh to hide his wavering resolve. “Squeezin’ me like that, gonna make me—”

“That’s right, milk that cock,” Geto coos, encouraging you to clamp down even more. As soon as you do, Gojo loses his balance and almost falls on you again, hovering his head over the crook of your neck. You can feel him panting, his hot breath uneven as he whines down to a halt, begging you with husky whispers of “pleasepleaseplease” with no real request. You cradle him in your arms, trying and failing not to dig crescents into his back.

Neither of you hear Geto approach as your awareness of his presence is only made known when thick fingers grab you both by the roots of your hair. He scoffs at the way you whine as he pulls Gojo away from you so that you can focus your attention on him. His face almost appears neutral if it weren’t for the way the glint of mischief in his eye was replaced by a darkened annoyance. “No one told you to stop,” he says in a whisper that’s roughened and tinged with a hint of a growl. “Now fuck like you mean it before you piss me off.”

He roughly drops the both of you before walking back to his chair, pleased to hear the proper sounds of skin on skin as Gojo slams into you with a purpose, his balls slapping against your ass. Geto takes a shudder breath as he sits, adjusting the boner in his pants ever so slightly, but hissing at the way it burns against his thigh. Not yet.

Your hiccups replace broken moans as Gojo takes the leg farthest from Geto — as not to obstruct his view — and slings it over his shoulder, pushing himself deeper into your sopping cunt. He presses down on your stomach to feel the bulge that pushes against his hand with each thrust, moving your other leg back onto the bed to ensure Geto has nothing else to say regarding you two’s performance.

Your eyes are sure to fall out the back of your head with the way they roll over. If it’s possible to split a human in half with a dick, you’re sure this is how it would start as your greedy little cunt is repeatedly bullied by Gojo’s cock, stretching around him like that’s what it was made for.

Geto watches the sight with a smirk that dares grow into a smile as he gets up to roll a blunt, telling Gojo, “Touch her clit,” as he licks it closed. He doesn’t miss the way you jump and let out a wanton moan yelling his name. Even with Gojo’s cock in you, you can only yell for him. Cute.

He takes his lighter out and takes a puff, letting the smoke sit in him and warm his chest before blowing it out off to the side.

“Come.”

If it weren’t for the constant edging, one or both of you could’ve survived two, maybe even three more strokes, but you almost instantly at the command. No, at the allowance. With your combined orgasms, a bigger mess is made between you two. Even with Gojo bottoming out into you, extra cum is forcing its way out around his dick and onto the blankets beneath you. In your state, you’d swear that you can feel Gojo’s dick kicking with every pulse as he continuously paints your walls with an all too heavy load.

With your clit finally getting the attention its been aching for, the combined deprivation of your high causes you to squirt and spill all over him. You can hear Geto whistling off to the side but can’t seem to care, rolling your hips with Gojo as you chase your orgasm to its completion, your body tensing before it relaxes. Your chest feels hot internally, but you shiver from the sweat around you as the chill of the air is finally starting to set in. You’re wrapped in Gojo’s warmth and arms only for a moment before Geto comes over and separates you two.

You hiss at the way pulls Gojo out of you, forcing Gojo to sit up even though he whines in complaint. His blunt long forgotten in the ashtray, he looks between the two of you, humming at the sight. A small breath through his nose expressing his delight is released when two fingers fit inside you easily. He slaps your hand away when you tiredly complain about it being “too soon.” Pressing his thumb to your clit, he watches as your hips twitch and buck as Gojo’s cum drips around his digits.

You curse your body for succumbing to his touch, willing it to fight back as he curls his fingers in you. Your breath hitches when you can feel him adding a third. Goosebumps prickle your skin as your nerves stand on end, the overstimulation simultaneously willing you to pull away but begging you to give in. Your arms are like lead as they uselessly hang at your sides.

You don’t even see the way Geto grabs Gojo with his other hand, but you hear pathetic whines as Gojo jumps from the touch. Geto does nothing but tut him into silence.

“I checked the time you know,” he says almost to himself as all he gets in response is broken forms of his name, “and you two didn’t even get close to making the hour like you promised. But… I am a kind man after all.”

A twist of his wrist and a press of his thumb have you two crying out.

“So I let you come early. And you will come. Again.” he relishes in the way you two cry out, for mercy, for god, for him. “And again and again and again,” he hums lightly, “and you won’t stop until I say so.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

taglist: @yasminessims @littlemochabunni @blkkizzat @ryomens-vixen @honeeslust

might hold a poll for what i should write next but idk yet, lmk what yall think!

#geto smut #gojo smut #gojo satoru #suguru geto #geto suguru #satoru gojo #gojo satoru x reader #getou suguru x reader #jjk smut

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bright-eyed · 24 days

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STILLWATER COVE

by Ada Limón

It seemed a furtive magic— sun ricocheting off cresting waves near Stillwater Cove, the soft rock cliffs

of sandstone and clay, the wind-tilted cypress trees leaning toward the blue Pacific—and it was only you

who'd see them. A migrating pod of gray whales going northward, new calves in tow, shooting a spray of frothy

expelled water from their blowholes and making a show of breaching in the clear spring air off the coastline.

We'd whine that we never caught a glimpse of a slick back or tail slap, nary a spy-hopping head raised

above the swirling surface. Too young to look outward for long, we'd lower our eyes toward what lived small,

the alligator lizard in the coyote brush, the bracken fern, orange monkey flower, the beach fly, the earwig, the tick.

It was your trick, always a whale as soon as our heads went down. Had to have been a lie: they'd come up

while we zeroed in on Mexican sage or the monarch. Distracted by the evidence of life at our feet,

we had no time for the waiting that was required. To watch the waves until the whales surfaced

seemed a maddening task. Now, I am in the inland air that smells of smoke and gasoline, the trees blown leafless by

wind. Could you refuse me if I asked you to point again at the horizon, to tell me something was worth waiting for?

#w #ada limón #kennapost

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flirtingwithlucidity · 3 months

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Breakfast date at Frothy Monkey

#mine #knoxville #tennessee

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venzlenes · 4 months

Note

You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As they say in Texas. I’ll bet you couldn’t pour !@#$ out of a boot with instructions on the heel. You are a canker. A sore that won’t go away. I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you.

You’re a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a cad, a weasel. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

You are a bleating foal, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformation. I barf at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention you smell?

Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it more rapidly.

You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You’re a fool, an ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won’t have sex with you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot.

And what meaning do you expect your delusional self-important statements of unknowing, inexperienced opinion to have with us? What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrums would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and obnoxious. You are the moral[size] equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meat slapper.

On a good day you’re a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

You smarmy lager lout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock. You grotty wanking oink artless base-court apple-john. You clouted boggish foot-licking twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You gormless crook-pated tosser. You churlish boil-brained clotpole ponce. You cockered bum-bailey poofter. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill. You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go away.

You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Your writing has to be a troll. Nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know. I’m sorry. I can’t go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don’t have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh.

The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped away most of what you wrote, because, well... it didn’t really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more success.

True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us ”normal” people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. But we sometimes forget that there are ”challenged” persons in this world who find these things more difficult. If I had known that this was your case then I would have never read your post. It just wouldn’t have been ”right”. Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you.

P.S.: You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful, cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable, belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal, fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic, brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame, self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, satanic, fraudulent, libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking, devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic, fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased, suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim, crazy, weird, dystopic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim, unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive, mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive, abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, clueless, and generally NOT GOOD.

I know u got this off a google. I've used it before. AND U WERE WITH ME WHEN I USED IT @myguumi

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incohorace · 1 year

Note

You want me to do better?? Fine, how about this?

You are swine you vulgar little maggot. Don't you know that you are pathetic? You worthless bag of filth. As we say in California, I'll bet you couldn't pour piss out of a boot with instructions on the heel. You are a canker. A sore that won't go away. A zit on the butt of society. I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you.

You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you. You are a bloody nardless newbie twit protohominid chromosomally aberrant caricature of a coprophagic cloacal parasitic pond scum and I wish you would go away.

You're a putrescence mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a cad, a weasel. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

You are a bleating fool, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformity. I barf at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. Because off your face the rabbit population actually decreased. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention you smell?

If you aren't an idiot, you made a world-class effort at simulating one.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You're a fool, an ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won't have sex with you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot.

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and obnoxious. You are the moral equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meatslapper.

I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid. Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid. You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Your writing has to be a troll. Nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know. I'm sorry. I can't go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don't have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh.

TEN OUT OF TEN.

omg are we about to kiss rn 🤭🤭

#anon you’re so obsessed with me tbh 😏#skill issue #ANYWAYS THIS HAS ME CACKLING

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nigrit · 2 months

Text

Anon [Louis de Champcenetz?], The War of the Districts, or the Flight of Marat, Heroi-comical poem in three cantos (Paris: n.p., July? 1790)

Part 4 (of 5)

Last Canto:

“When the sun that lights our way,

Near SAINT-MANDÉ

Had flooded all of PARIS,

With its quicksilver light:

Five to six large battalions

Followed by two squadrons,

Silently advanced

Into OBSERVANCE.

BAILLY knowing the moment

When the troops would be assembling,

Is chatting with his wife,

Who fancies herself a fine lady,

While pouring out the tea,

With a fair degree of glee.

‘MARAT’, she says, ‘will be captured,

How my heart is enraptured!

He sought out of his own vanity

To tarnish your immortality;

But the die is cast.’

‘Oh! my loyal spouse!’

He says to her so tenderly

Promptly back to Mr Mayor;

‘Your speech is quite delightful,

I want to have a child with you.

I find you quite an eyeful,

How I long for you anew.'

‘Moderate your friendship’,

His chaste half says to he;

‘I'm not some flirting girouette,

Just wait until la FAYETTE

Has the rascal under lock and key;’

BAILLY says, ‘I want it desperately.’

NECKER who shines with virtue,

Between his daughter & his wife,

Tasted at that moment

The best day of his life.

‘We will let the joker rot

In the corner of some cell.

He attacks my writings,

He covers me with spleen;

Me! whose noble role

Shines so brightlyeverywhere:

Me! Minister Supreme,

Getting vexed by MARAT.’

STAËL (1) the proud ambassadress,

Felt a noble wrath,

Which made her jaundice blush,

‘My father, console yourself;

I wish to make a satire [1]

Against all the insolent wretches

Which your great talents censor

And dare to slander you.

My dear NARBONNE LARA (2)

Shall help me with this work.

GUIBERT (3) could have done it,

His pen is quite light,

But he no longer knows how to please me;

And in my daring pamphlets

I shall crush CHAMPCENETZ (4),[2]

This caustic character

Whose teasing I detest.’

Her mother, reacting to her zeal,

Addresses both, ‘My children,

For that is what you are;

And when I look at you;

My heart is like my eyes;

I confuse you with each other.

Reflect well upon our glory;

And use the écritoire; [3]

Because it is by this weapon,

That this great Minister is here.

The patriotic horde

Of the MERCIERS & GUDINS, (5)

Avenge us every morning,

From the famished horde

Who crawl under DESMOULINS (a):

Their pension is not enough;

But to defeat the MARATS,

We have the proud escort

Of the SUARDS & GARATS (6).

And if we need more ducats

For this miserly cohort;

Pay them, it’s no big deal,

Since we are not short.

But let’s consider something else,

Without any mystery.

MARAT is almost in the clink;

So let’s restore ourselves with a dose

Of this frothy cocoa drink.”

However in the meantime.

The Cordeliers District,

Had armed its warriors.

With very many carts,

And those carriages one hails,

The passages are blocked,

And the guns are loaded.

But lest anyone break through

The passage du Commerce,

Two cannons are placed there

With two or three platoons.

By the door, no carriage arch,

To MARAT’S humble dwelling,

Are placed thirty grenadiers,

With fifty riflemen.

Supported fromthe riverside,

The SAINT SEVERIN District

Has prepared its terrain. [4]

When arriving from behind,

The SAINT MARCEL District,

Came to unfurl its banner

In the Place SAINT MICHEL.

NAUDET the great Captain,

Fearing a flanking move

Protected Luxembourg.

D’ANTON, this other TURENNE, [5]

Followed by some warriors,

Visited all the neighbourhoods;

Putting himself out of breath;

Encouraging the soldiery

To defend MARAT well.

Such glory & such fame

Are not acquired without pain!

Father GOD, Cordelier,

Would show no mercy.

But hidden in his attic

Monsieur FABRE D’EGLANTINE

Seeing the civil war

Quivered from head to toe;

More than if he saw the faces

Of the Bailiffs & recorders

Coming to sing his morning prayers.[6]

WASHINGTON’S monkey,

Surrounded by a battalion

And all these subalterns,

Went off prancing,

And nearly grazed in passing

The lampposts & the ropes,

Where he let a treacherous mob

String up poor FOULON. [7]

He sees that canons have been placed

On every avenue;

And that the end of every street

Armed like a bastion,

Contains a large battalion:

This troubles his genius,

And his soul is less bold

BARNAVE is quite astonished;

He was determined

To act like he’d done at Versailles;

But to risk battle and die!

D'AIGUILLON, gasping for air

From his fishwife attire

Flees at the double,

Escorted by the rabble. [8]

Brave like RODOMONT,[9]

Suddenly without any warning,

Henri SALM & Jacques AUMONT (7)

Go off to explore;

Everywhere are large platoons:

So Henri says to Jacques;

‘My dear friend, let’s decamp;

Let's not start the attack;

Don’t you see those big canons?’

‘Well said, let’s retreat’;

Jacques immediately replies;

‘Soldiers! Half turn to the right.

The obedient troops

In such pressing danger,

Turn round to find LA FAYETTE;

Whose stunned expression,

Dismayed the proud AUMONT,

And his brave companion.

Bold like NICOMEDES (b)

VILLETTE (8), finding himself there, [10]

Suggests a remedy for the ill.

‘This is really no big deal;

Trickery is as useful in war,

As in love, thank God!

We must outflank the enemy,

And attack it from behind.

On more than one occasion

FREDERIC (c) did the same.

But the assembled Troops

Keep watch and fall silent:

When at this moment,

The mistress of MARAT,

A sturdy chambermaid

And formerconventgatekeeper(9) [11]

Whose eye sparkles bright,

Addresses this prayer,

To the most unfortunate Lover,

Who is causing all her grief.

‘Do you want to be murdered?

Or even in a prison cell,

Without your JAVOTTE, starving [12]

On a shabby straw mat,

Do you want to be confined?

Take my headscarf, my petticoat,

And my cotton kerchief;

I will wear your breeches,

And followed by your JAVOTTE,

Whom they will mistake for a boy,

We will go far from the city

And find another home.

Do you wish to see Paris burn

For a few worthless lines?’

MARAT did not wish to know

But the clever maid

Crying and sobbing,

Knew how to soften up her beau.

‘I'm not worth that much blood,’

Says MARAT, in sensitive mood;

‘Let’s leave the city calm;

And swop our clothes at once;

We can do anything with love.”

This noble disguise

Was done in a trice.

Descending from their attic, [13]

They pass through the Soldiers

Without any hesitation,

And make their way outside.

Arm in arm, the couple

Lengthened their stride;[14]

When on a street corner

They find brother GRUE (10),

A subaltern, but strongwilled [15]

Who recognizes them at once…

He did not cry out in wonder,

But whispers in their ear:

‘You’re doing well,

Go now, have no fear,

Once you're in the clear

I’ll do what needs to be done.’

MARAT responds at once,

‘It’s to spare the blood

Of a District I revere,

That I’m wearing a white petticoat,

Farewell, my reverend frère.

The subaltern Cordelier,

Fearing some grapeshot

Might start the fight;

Cried out across the neighbourhood

In a loud, booming voice:

‘MARAT has chosen his story,

He fled a long time ago.’

They did not want to believe it;

D’ANTON, wanting all the glory

Sends a detachment,

To thoroughly search

His whole apartment,

And assure their escape.

He knew everything in a flash. [16]

Once peace was resolved.

Brother GRUE was dispatched

Towards the great General,

Who welcomed his Ambassador

In a most friendly manner,

And gave him a warm hug.

Immediately, from both sides

The retreat was rung;

And the delighted Bourgeois,

All cried out, PEACE IS DONE.

But dark CRUELTY,

Indignant & furious

At such a treaty,

Quickly takes flight;

And in her fearsome rage

Hastens to the Châtelet

To ponder some misdeed.

STUPIDITY, now more tranquil

Lingered within the Hotel de Ville.

Thus ended, without a melée,

But not without a dumb display,

The adventure of Marat. [17]

Notes to the Last Canto:

(1) Baroness DE STAËL is not unworthy of her father & her mother, she has as much intelligence as beauty; everyone knows that.

(2) Comte Louis DE NARBONNE had left Mademoiselle CONTAT for Madame de STAËL, but, like ANTHONY, he kept returning to CLEOPATRA & the Actress prevailed over the Ambassadress.[18]

(3) Comte DE GUIBERT had been dumped by Madame de STAËL; such a loss consoled him for all his disgrace. [19]

(4) The Marquis de CHAMPCENETZ is the Ambassadress’s nemesis because of this famous epigram which has been falsely attributed to him, & which he has the candour to disavow: [20]

ARMANDE holds in her mind everything she’s read,

ARMANDE has acquired a scorn for charms;

She fears the mocker whom she constantly inspires,

She avoids the lover who does not seek her.

Since she lacks the art of concealing her face,

And she is eager to display her intellect;

One must challenge her to cease being wise,

And to understand what she says. [21]

(5) Bribed writers.

(6) Ditto. [22]

(7) The Prince of SALM & the DUC D'AUMONT sign their names democratically, just as they are written in the poem, which is quite ridiculous.[23] The poor devils are taking revenge for the contempt they have always inspired in honest people & have mingled effortlessly with the rabble.

(8) All Paris knows about VILLETTE, a retroactive citizen. VOLTAIRE died inconsolable for having praised him. [24]

(9) Indeed, MARAT's mistress was a novice in a convent from where she was taken by our hero. [25]

(10) Brother GRUE, the heavyweight of the adventure, is a jolly good fellow who does not lack common sense, & to whom the Cordeliers district owes a statue; but the multitude is ungrateful.[26]

(a) Antagonist of Mr. Necker

(b) The King of Bithynia

[1] ‘Satyre’ usually refers to the part human, part goat creature, known for revelry and bad behaviour. Possibly a pun, referring to both ‘satire’ and Mme de Stael’s ‘ugliness’, whose masculine looks were frequently commented on by contemporaries.

[2] Champcenetz often inserted himself in the third person into his own compositions.

[3] “Monsieur de Saint-Ecritoire” was Necker’s nickname for his beloved daughter, Herold (1958), p.66. Ecritoire was a portable, hinged desk set.

[4] Actually, it was the militant Saint-Antoine district that Danton threatened to summons into action as backup. Saint-Severin provided a contingent of National Guards for Lafayette’s expedition. See Babut, pp.284-85.

[5] Henri de la Tour d’Auvergne, vicomte de Turenne was a Marshal General of France from the 17th century, renowned for retaking Paris from the Prince de Condé during the civil wars of the Fronde.

[6] Fabre d’Eglantine had been a target for earlier lampoons by Rivarol & Champcenetz in their Le Petit Almanach de nos grands hommes pour l’année 1788 (1788) and Petit Dictionnaire des grands hommes de la Révolution (Aug 1790). Fabre d’Eglantine, who lived four doors away from Marat on 12 rue de l’Ancienne-Comedie, was Danton’s right-hand man and vice-president of the Cordeliers district assembly at this time. While Paré was president (Danton having served from October to December), the district was still effectively under Danton’s control, and Danton was re-elected president on 31 March.

[7] Joseph Foullon de Doué, who replaced Jacques Necker as Controller-General of finances, was deeply unpopular with the Parisians. He was lynched “à la lanterne” on 22 July 1789, and his head stuck on a pike with his mouth stuffed with straw, following a widespread rumour that he had said, “let them eat hay!”.

[8] Armand de Vignerot du Plessis, duc d’Aiguillon had been the wealthiest man in France after the king before sacrificing his title to all his feudal properties on 4 August 1789 and losing over 100,000 livres in rents. Despite having planned to launch the initiative during the debate on renunciation of noble privileges, the considerably less wealthy vicomte de Noailles beat him to the punch in a bid for popularity! Nevertheless, d’Aiguillon’s gesture had a massive impact, and his gesture became the signal for similar sacrifices, escalating events much further along than anticipated. As a result, disgusted royalists, especially from the Actes des apôtres and Gautier’s Journal general de la Cour et de la Ville, depicted him dressed as a poissarde (fisherwoman) leading a battalion of tough dames from Les Halles during the October Days march. Barnave was depicted in similar fashion. In fact, transvestism was frequently deployed in royalist lampoons, as we shall see in the later description of Marat’s escape.

[9] Rodomonte was a major character, renowned for his bravery and arrogance, in Ludovico Ariosto’s 16th-century romantic, epic poems, Orlando innamorato & Orlando furioso.

[10] While the marquis de Villette was the commandant of the Cordeliers district battalion, he opposed Danton’s wish to defend Marat, and had suggested arresting him themselves. Because of the Cordeliers’ own arreté from 19 January insisting on district autonomy, he explained to Lafyette’s commander, Gonsault de Plainville, that he must remain neutral but later thanked him for ridding the district of a “mauvais sujet”. The other battalion commander present was Carle from the Henri IV district. See Babut, p.285

[11] See later note for likely explanation of the convent reference. At this time Marat had a young assistant, Victoire Nayait, who liaised with local printers. This might also explain the erroneous reference to chambermaid.

[12] Javotte is a fictional archetype who often appears as a maidservant, or, sometimes, a prostitute.

[13] Marat had been staying nearby with Boucher de Saint Saveur as a precautionary measure since 14 January. His rooms were in the hotel Fautrière, 39 rue de l’Ancienne-Comédie, which also housed the permanent barracks (30 men) for the Cordeliers district militia. See Mémoire de Madame Boucher Saint-Sauveur contre Marat (late 1790).

[14] According to Marat’s own account of his escape in the Ami du Peuple #170 (23 July 1790), which was also published some six months later, he donned a disguise and left in the arms of a young lady (“marchant à pas comptés”). This detail that might suggest that the poem was published after this account.

[15] The word ‘Coupechou’, a variant of ‘Coupe-choux’, literally means ‘Cabbage cutter’. It was often used in conjunction with ‘frère’ to mean a novice monk (usually put in charge of the vegetables), and, by extension, a person of no importance, Dictionnaire de la langue française (1873), in Dictionnaires d’autrefois (online). In the slang of Père Duchene, ‘grue’ means a fool, or someone easily tricked, Michel Biard, Parlez-vous sans-culotte? (2009), pp.179-80.

[16] When the National Guard were finally allowed to enter Marat’s rooms, they confiscated all his papers, both presses and his type, effectively ending the newspaper and bankrupting him. Many of the papers, including valuable information on Marat’s subscribers, remain in the Archives Nationales (Pierrefitte). The most important of these were rescued by friends, most notably his detailed evidence against Necker, which he published from London in a follow-up to his original pamphlet, as Nouvelle dénoncation contre Necker (April?). Danton’s relationship with Marat would later be lampooned in a scurrilous libelle that described them having homosexual relations, Bordel patriotique etc. (1791).

[17] It is worth nothing here that as a result of Marat’s escapades, his resulting notoriety led to a considerable increase in his revolutionary profile with other journalists and politicians now paying much closer attention to his writing, especially when he began publishing fiercely hostile pamphlets from London. It also led to his inclusion in David’s sketch for his unfinished paining, Serment du Jeu de Paume (1790/91), where Marat can be seen top-right in the public gallery, wearing a broad-rimmed hat, writing with his back to the viewer. The other inclusion, not there at the time, was the deputy Bertrand Barère, editor of the Point du Jour.

[18] In fact, she appears to have had her first two children by the comte de Narbonne-Lara, born in 1790 (Auguste) and 1792 (Albert), see Herold, p.95.

[19] Guibert was a handsome salon gallant and habitué of the salons run by Madame Necker, Mme de Stael’s mother.

[20] Quite why Madame de Stael merits four uncomplimentary notes remains unclear. If Rivarol and/or the marquis de Champcenetz are the anonymous authors, it is worth noting that they also prefaced their anonymous Petit Dictionnaire des grands hommes de la Révolution (Aug 1790) with a biting (and salacious) dedication to “her excellency Madame la Baronne de Stael”, which mocked, amongst other things, the weight of her “prodige” [genius]. Champcenetz also had a fondness for using the six/seven syllable lines found in this poem.

[21] These lines first appeared in a pamphlet erroneously attributed to Rivarol, Réponse à la réponse de M. de Champcenetz; Au sujet de l'Ouvrage de Madame la B. de S***. sur Rousseau (1789), p.7. It is most likely by Champcenetz, who also wrote the original Réponse aux Lettres sur le caractère et les ouvrages de J.J. Rousseau. Bagatelle que vingt libraires ont refusé de faire imprimer (1789). He had also used the alter ego ‘Armande’ to describe Mme de Stael in the anonymous Petit traité de l’amour des femmes pour les sots (1788). The reference to the mother-worshiping Armande comes from Molière’s play, Les Femmes Savantes. The satire is piquant since Mme de Stael was presented by her adoring family as a child prodigy under the tutelage of her doting mother, described by William Beckford as a “précieuse-ridicule”. Moreover, and it is hard to see how the author knew this unless a salon regular, or informed by one, Mme de Stael had privately acted in Les Femmes Savantes. See Helen Borowitz, ‘The unconfessed Précieuse etc.’, in 19th Century French Studies (1982), p.39.

[22] These names suggest someone with intimate knowledge of Necker’s propaganda ‘factory’. Marat had also accused Mercier, Suard and Gudin of being on Necker’s payroll (check). Paul-Philippe Gudin de la Brenellerie, Beaumarchais’s friend and publisher, would later publish a Supplément au Contrat Social (1792, Maradan), which came with an appendix on the need to breed to keep breeding to secure a steady increase in the population! Garat’s Journal de Paris was openly subsidized by Necker. Amongst the more patriotic writers, Cerutti, later editor of La Feuille Villageoise, was also the only one writer to openly defend him in his Lettre sur Necker (1790).

[23] Probably a reference to Charles Albert Henry (b.1761), ninth son of Philip Joseph, Prince of Salm-Kyrburg.

[24] Charles (the former marquis) de Villette was a noted homosexual frequently attacked in scurrilous pamphlets during this time, including, Vie privée et public du ci-derrière marquis de Villette, citoyen rétroactif (1791) and Les Enfants de Sodome à l’Assemblée Nationale etc. (1790, ‘Chez le Marquis de Villette’). ‘Rétroactif’ here appears to be both a pun on being an ‘active’ citizen (referring to the law passed in Oct 1789, discriminating between active and passive citizens for the purpose of voting and standing for office, and a possible synonym for homosexuality (viz its synonym, ‘posterior’).

[25] This reference to an imaginary, ex-novice lover probably alludes to a recent article in Marat’s paper, describing how his services were regularly sought by readers seeking redress. In this particular issue (Ami du peuple #88, from 5 Jan 1790), he gave the singular example (“aussi piquante par sa singularité qu’elle est intéressante par sa nature”) of a nun called “sister Catherine” (Anne Barbier) who had escaped from Pantémon Abbey after suffering countless abuses due to her patriotic views. She had come to see Marat in the company of her landlady (Mme Lavoire), she had sought his help in securing her liberty and reclaiming her possessions.

[26] While I can find no trace of a ‘brother Grue’ in any of the surviving accounts, the most likely candidate would appear to be the powerfully built butcher, Louis Legendre, co-founder of the Cordeliers Club in April 1790 with Danton. In this context, ‘Lourdis’ probably derives from the figurative use of ‘lourd’ to suggest heavyweight, possibly by association with the other meaning of ‘grue’ as ‘crane’ (both bird and a lifting mechanism for heavy loads). Legendre hid Marat several times in his cellar on the rue de Beaune; see speech to the Jacobins on 24 Jan 1794, in Aulard, op.cit.

Alternatively, a letter from 9 May 1790 describes the arrest of Louis Gruet, a fusilier in the Cordeliers battalion. See Alexandre Tuetey, Répertoire général des sources manuscrites de l’histoire de Paris pendant la Révolution française, Tome 2 (1890), p.420 (3982).

Finally, ‘Grue’ might be a nickname for François Heron (viz ‘crane’), who later acquired notoriety as the main police agent for the Committee of General Security. While I can find no record of his playing any role in these events, he also hid Marat in his home, on 275 rue St Honoré, during 1790, and probably knew him from their time working for the king’s youngest brother, the comte d’Artois.

#la fuite de Marat #Jean-Paul Marat #French Revolution #Georges Danton #General Lafayette #libel #counter-revolutionary #poetry #1790 #Jacques Necker #marat

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stickerrsssss · 5 months

Note

On a good day you’re a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are deficient

in all that lends character. You have the personality of wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill.

You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are degenerate,

noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go away.

I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid.

Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid.

the laws of physics that we know. I’m sorry. I can’t go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don’t have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh.

Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you.

P.S.:

You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful, cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable, belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal, fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic, brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame, self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, satanic, fraudulent, libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb,

evasive, double-talking, devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic, fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased, suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim, crazy, weird, dystopic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim, unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive,

mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive, abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, clueless, and generally NOT GOOD.

(I lovb yaou… this is a copy pastas🥺🥺)

This is a copy pasta??? No way!!!! I totally definitely thought you wrote all of this out by hand!!!!

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kaioshin-kai · 9 months

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#(askbox)#nice copypasta #That's just zamasu monologueing

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nash-writes · 1 year

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Emery and the Twins (Bea and Bennett) | The Frothy Monkey

Emery found little amusement in life anymore but the name a particular coffee shop downtown always made her lips quirk up slightly. It made it worth the trip through the throngs of people to get her regular latte and she'd taken to sitting at a table in the corner where she could easily watch the passing crowds. People watching, she did it often but humans these days never amounted to much so she grew bored easily. It led her eyes to wondering, gazing over the patrons of the shop while she dreamed up small backgrounds to fit each character around her. The vampire had been in the middle of doing just this when her eyes landed on young girl sitting with a boy of her age, the both of them seeming awfully familiar to her.

She had to admit, when she'd first been turned she had a hard time leaving her children behind. Every so often Emery would return to her old home to check in on them while staying in the shadows, much to the distaste of her lover, and she kept tabs as long as she could. As soon as they'd hit eighteen though she'd gave up on keeping them in her sights. Her lover had become impatient with the game and the twins had been old enough to take care of themselves should something happen but she had thought of them often over the years.

Now, looking at these two, she finally realized why they seemed so familiar as a memory of her last visit to her children came to mind. It couldn't be them though. They would be long dead at this point, right? But something was drawing Emery closer to them and soon enough she found herself standing next to their table staring at the angelic faces of her twin babies with wide eyes, all the while her heart feeling as if it were twittering for the first time since she'd truly been alive. Too bad that was impossible. "Beatrice? Bennett?"

#Emery: She sins to forget she has a heart || Convos #Emery and Bea: 001 #Emery: ft Bea #Emery: ft Bennett #Bennett: He refuses to believe he's not the god of his own universe || Convos #Bennett and Bea: 001 #Bennett: ft Bea #Bennett: ft Emery

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25more · 3 days

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Frothy Monkey, Franklin, TN

Monkey Mocha, chocolatey. I am a black coffee drinker, so this was sweeeet, and because I am a black coffee drinker, I had never had one with latte art. I sat down to journal on Saturday, thinking about my Monkey Mocha experience, and this is what came out- my sincerest apologies: You’re drinking a Monkey MochaI’ll use the Heimlich if you chokaLet’s go to the Louvre to see the MonaI guess you…

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strengervinay · 27 days

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Discover Why Trekking Shines on a Dudhsagar Waterfall Trip!

Dudhsagar waterfall trip, with its roaring cascades and lush green surroundings, is a spectacle that leaves visitors awestruck. Nestled deep within the Bhagwan Mahavir Wildlife Sanctuary in Goa, India, this waterfall is one of the tallest in the country, plunging from a height of over 300 meters. While many come to admire its beauty, the real magic lies in the trek leading up to the falls. Here’s why trekking shines on a Dudhsagar Waterfall trip.

What Makes Dudhsagar Falls Trek So Special?

The Thrill of the Journey

For most, the journey of covering the Bangalore to Dudhsagar distance is as exhilarating as the destination itself. The trek begins from the base village of Kulem, winding through dense forests, rocky terrain, and overgrown railway tracks. As the sounds of the wilderness intensify with every step, trekkers are drawn into an adventure that promises excitement at every turn. The unpredictability of the trail—whether it's crossing streams, navigating slippery paths, or spotting wildlife—adds a sense of thrill that elevates the trekking experience.

Trekking to Dudhsagar isn’t just about reaching the falls; it’s about embracing the challenges and the surprises that nature throws along the way. The trek offers a perfect blend of moderate difficulty and captivating scenery.

How To Reach

Wondering how to reach Dudhsagar falls by train, air or road? To reach Dudhsagar Falls, fly to Goa’s Dabolim Airport, then drive 60 km to Kulem, the base for trekking. By train, disembark at Kulem Railway Station, well-connected to major cities. Alternatively, drive via NH 748 from Goa or Karnataka to Kulem, and continue the trek to the falls.

A Walk Through Nature's Paradise

As trekkers venture deeper into the forest, they are greeted by an abundance of flora and fauna. The Bhagwan Mahavir Wildlife Sanctuary is home to a variety of species, from exotic birds and butterflies to monkeys and even the elusive Bengal tiger. The dense canopy above and the rich undergrowth below create an immersive environment that feels far removed from the bustling world outside.

The Majestic First Glimpse

After hours of trekking, travelling between railway station near Dudhsagar falls and other struggles, the moment of first catching sight of Dudhsagar Falls is nothing short of magical. The sight of the waterfall, cascading down in milky white torrents, is both awe-inspiring and humbling. It’s no wonder that the name "Dudhsagar" translates to "Sea of Milk," a fitting description for the frothy, white waters that seem to flow endlessly from the heavens.

A Trekking Experience Like No Other

Trekking to this destination is also about choosing the right Dudhsagar waterfalls timing. Based on your preference you can choose any season you want keeping in mind that while the place remains serene throughout the year, some weather conditions are just safer than others. It is not just about reaching a destination; it’s about the entire experience. The camaraderie among fellow trekkers, the shared challenges, and the collective awe at nature's wonders all contribute to making this journey unforgettable. The sense of accomplishment that comes from completing the trek is profound, leaving trekkers with a lasting sense of satisfaction and a deeper appreciation for the natural world.

Whether it’s the thrill of navigating the wild terrain, the peace found in the forest's embrace, or the overwhelming sight of the falls themselves, trekking to Dudhsagar is an experience that resonates long after the journey ends.

Final Thoughts: Is the Dudhsagar Waterfall Trip Worth It?

Dudhsagar Falls is more than just a tourist attraction; it’s a journey into the heart of nature. The trek leading up to it is a highlight in itself, offering a perfect blend of adventure, beauty, and tranquillity. For those looking to escape the ordinary and immerse themselves in a truly extraordinary experience, trekking to Dudhsagar Falls is a must. The waterfall may be the destination, but it’s the trek that truly makes the trip shine.

#dudhsagar waterfalls timing #dudhsagar waterfall trip #railway station near dudhsagar falls #how to reach dudhsagar falls by train #bangalore to dudhsagar distance

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loveiseverywheremp3 · 3 months

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It seemed a furtive magic—

sun ricocheting off cresting waves near

Stillwater Cove, the soft rock cliffs

of sandstone and clay, the wind-tilted

cypress trees leaning toward

the blue Pacific—and it was only you

that saw the whales. A migrating pod

of gray whales going northward new

calves in tow, shooting a spray of frothy

expelled water from their blowholes

and making a show of breaching

in the clear spring air off the coastline.

We’d whine that we never

caught a glimpse of a slick back or tail slap,

nary a spyhopping head raised

above the swirling surface. Too young

to look outward for long, we’d lower

our eyes toward what lived small,

the alligator lizard in the coyote bush,

the bracken fern, the orange monkey

flower, the beach fly, the earwig, the tick.

It was your trick, always a whale

as soon as our heads went down, had

to have been a lie, they’d come up

while we zeroed in on Mexican sage

or the monarch. Distracted

by the evidence of life at our feet,

we had no time for the waiting

that was required. To watch

the waves until the whales surfaced

seemed a maddening task. Now, I am

in the inland air that smells of smoke

and gasoline, the trees blown leafless by

wind. Could you refuse me if I asked you

to point again at the horizon, to tell me

something was worth waiting for?

- Ada Limón, 'Stillwater Cove'

#for me #poetry

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monkeyjacktradingcompany · 4 months

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Introducing Monkeyjack's May Marvel: The 80 Hole Outer Space Bubble Blaster!

Brace yourselves for a wild ride because our monkeys have taken the term "bubble mania" to a whole new level! Monkeyjack headquarters turned into a frothy sea of bubbles as our mischievous chimps got their paws on the 80 Hole Outer Space Bubble Blaster. We made the mistake of giving them the keys to the bubble kingdom, and now we're just spectators in their bubbly universe!

The fun doesn't stop there!

Dive into a bubbly adventure of your own with our natural soap, perfect for a sudsy party that'll leave you feeling fresh and fabulous. And why stop there? Let our refreshing sugar scrubs exfoliate away the day's worries, and then nourish your skin with our exquisite body butters!

#monkeyjacktradingcompany.com

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crowdvscritic · 5 months

Text

round up // APRIL 24

Big ensembles, the queens of pop, rocky romances, and love-it-or-hate-it pop culture artifacts—they’re all here.

We're on the eve of summer blockbuster season, but we’ve already seen several strong releases, including one below I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m still thinking about in December. Keep scrolling through this Round Up for the top comedies, classics, and action thrillers I experienced April in the order I experienced them...

April Crowd-Pleasers

1. Monkey Man (2024)

Part John Wick, part Rocky, and part something all its own, Dev Patel’s feature directorial debut is a brutal revenge thriller action fans will love. Watch my full review for KMOV. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10

youtube

2. SNL Round Up

Just last month I was low-key mourning an underwhelming season of Saturday Night Live, but then Kristen Wiig and Ryan Gosling came to revive my hopes with two of the best episodes in awhile. Start with “Beavis and Butt-Head” or just cue up both episodes and watch start-to-finish.

“Five-Timers Monologue” (4916 with Kristen Wiig)

“Jumanji” (4916)

“Weekend Update: Aunt Linda on the Latest Hit Movies” (4916)

“La Maison Du Bang!” (4916)

“Monologue” (4917 with Ryan Gosling)

“The Engagement” (4917)

“Weekend Update: Resident Boyfriend Michael Longfellow on Weaponized Incompetence” (4917)

“Weekend Update: Caitlin Clark on the WNBA Draft” (4917)

“Beavis and Butt-Head” (4917)

“Erin Brockovich” (4917)

“Doctor” (4917)

“Papyrus 2” (4917)

3. Upgraded (2024)

This update of Working Girl set in the art world is, to put it bluntly, just super cute. Camila Mendes has the star power to lead movies bigger than Prime originals (including the winning charisma needed for the best rom-coms), and we could use Marisa Tomei in more of everything. Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 6.5/10

4. The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare (2024)

It’s not every day I get to mention The Guns of Navarone in a review. This movie is selling itself to you (and your dad) as an opportunity to watch Superman and Jack Reacher kill a bunch of Nazis, and with Guy Ritchie directing, this action-adventure is plenty fun. Read my full review at ZekeFilm. Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 7.5/10

5. Brooklyn Nine-Nine (2013-21)

Thanks to Southwest Airlines, I've seen a smattering of the eight seasons of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, but with the first four seasons now on Netflix, April became the month to watch it all the way through. Like Mike Schur’s other sitcoms (The Good Place, The Office, Parks and Recreation), the joke rate is exceptionally high and the characters are lovable and idiosyncratic. If a sitcom filled with Halloween heists, umpteen references to Die Hard, and the silliest possible cases for police offers sounds like your jam, you won’t be disappointed, either.

MORE APRIL CROWD-PLEASERS: If you can roll with the half-developed plotting (and a few cruder-than-necessary moments) in the stylish Lisa Frankenstein (2024), this ‘80s-set homage to Heathers is a lot of fun. // When I tried to watch High Fidelity (2000) as a teenager, I quit about 30 minutes in because John Cusack’s man-child protagonist was so unlikeable. I’m glad I gave it another chance as an adult so I could realize that’s the point. // Jake Johnson’s feature directorial debut Self Reliance (2023) is successful as both a comedy and a thriller. // How to Marry Keanu Reeves in 90 Days by K.M. Jackson (2021) is a frothy BFFs-to-true-loves rom-com filled with celebrity cameos. // Smokey and the Bandit (1977) is way more fun than a movie about greedy lawbreakers should be.

April Critic Picks

1. The Lost Weekend (1945)

The Best Picture Project continues with Billy Wilder’s first bout of Oscar glory. Read my Crowd and Critic reviews (or just keep scrolling to the previous post if you’re on the home page.) Crowd: 7/10 // Critic: 9/10

2. Cowboy Carter by Beyoncé (2024)

The problem of writing about Beyoncé is it’s boring to just keep finding new ways to say, “She’s really good at this!” I could write about the sincerity the coming-of-age heartbreak in “16 CARRIAGES,” the epic nature of the bookends “AMERICAN REQUIEM” and “AMEN,” the innovation on “JOLENE” and “BLACKBIIRD,” and the absolute banger that is “YA YA.” (The only real surprise is I’ve found a second Post Malone song I like.) Because I’m a film critic and not a music critic (or much of a country fan), I recommend checking out the Los Angeles Times review for more context on how this fits into her canon and the history of country music.

3. The Heartbreak Kid (1972)

Why is this rom-com from Elaine May so hard to find? Because my local library is awesome, I’ve now finally seen Charles Grodin get married and then think he may have met the real love of his life (Cybill Shepherd) on his honeymoon. More than five decades later, May’s hilarious and cringey film still has plenty of insight into men’s and women’s relationships (and sunburns), and (minor spoiler alert) its ending is a perfect companion to The Graduate. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 9.5/10

4. Civil War (2024)

I saw someone on Letterboxd call this movie a Rorschach test, and boy, oh boy, that’s an undersell. Civil War is brilliant not because of the political statements it’s making if for no other reason than it makes very few of them. This photojournalist road trip is about the impossibility of complete objectivity, but more than that, it’s about the destructive nature of hostile disagreement. An alliance between California and Texas is writer/director Alex Garland deliberately telling us not to get hung up in our moment’s political issues—if we are so convinced of our own self-righteousness, we’ll lose everything we claim to be fighting for. The Jesse Plemons performance is my premature pick for Best Scene of 2024. Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 9/10

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5. The Tortured Poets Department by Taylor Swift (2024)

The prophet has come down from the mountain. Somewhere in my third listen, The Tortured Poets Department snuck up on me. I thought this would be another evermore: worthy of mad respect, but too lugubrious to be a frequent relisten outside of “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart.” While that tragic bop is the current contender for the top spot in this year's Spotify 100, “The Tortured Poets Department,” “Clara Bow,” “Fortnight” (now only the third Post Malone song I’ve ever liked), and “My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” will also certainly be in my annual playlist—and that’s just Side A! On Side B, the Daedalian lyrics of “The Black Dog,” “imgonnagetyouback,” “So High School,” “I Hate It Here,” and “I Look in People’s Windows” elevate their sad stories into awe-inspiring strings of words. Whom she and her collaborators are writing about is beside the point; even at billionaire status, Swift’s heartbreak, regret, hope, and indignation are as relatable as ever, sp she can write about high school as long as she likes. Because I’m a film critic and not a music critic, I recommend checking out Variety’s review for more thoughtful (and perhaps more objective) prose about this collection of poetry.

MORE APRIL CRITIC PICKS: Unfaithfully Yours (1948) is an early entry in the Symphony Conductors Dealing With Marital Issues Cinematic Universe that paved the way for Tár and Maestro. // Frank Capra’s semi-forgotten early feature Platinum Blonde (1931) fits right in his legacy of class-conscious rom-coms. // The spectacle of Cleopatra (1963) still dazzles even now.

Also in April…

I checked out the new time travel romance on Hulu, The Greatest Hits, which definitely took inspiration from High Fidelity. Read my full review for Zekefilm.

Photo credits: Beyoncé. All others IMDb.com.

#Round Up #Monkey Man #The Lost Weekend #The Heartbreak Kid #Youtube #SNL #Saturday Night Live #The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare #Brooklyn Nine-Nine #The Tortured Poets Department #Taylor Swift #Cowboy Carter #Beyoncé #Upgraded #Civil War

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randommman · 11 months

Text

Dreamland Beach

Something about Light

As the sun slides down into its sinkhole at the bottom of the sky it casts a strange fluttering light onto the wing outside my little window.

The light fades and I’m reading Patti Smith and listening to Ahmoudou Madassane. Zerzura and Just Kids. These and the light. Some magic.

Patti’s at the Chelsea Hotel, her “doll’s house in the Twilight Zone” and she’s running into Jimi H in El Quixote, Jimi’s in town for Woodstock. Ahmoudou’s in the Niger desert night channelling Jimi circa 1967, backwards guitar on his Stratocaster…

Mesmerised by these words and sounds, I am diving in and out of a dream.

This place is outside of time, suspended.

Fireflies in a cave, moths round a flame, whirring whirling wasps of night.

Specks of stars on the carpet of the sky, windowlets into the next universe, portals that pierce the great divide.

For moments, or maybe hours, I am drifting.

The food has arrived: the spell is broken. Pastries from Vili’s family bakery, somewhere in Denpasar? I resist, but it’s no good, the aroma is too enticing.

Outside the light is dead and all I can see is the reflection of my crusty meal, flying flakes of filo crumbs in

the golden

light.

I can hear the cicadas chirping while Ahmoudou is pouring and re-pouring the frothy hot mint tea somewhere away north of Agadez. All I’ve got is Schweppes Zero Sugar Natural Mineral Water With a Hint of Blood Orange and Mango.

Short straw.

I am in a circle of light within the dark. A halo of sorts, shimmer of the past days.

Strange things happen in Denpasar.

In dim lit rooms old faded pink curtains up narrow stairs down dusty lanes. Smiling boys and fluttering flags. Smoke smudging the evening sky and the moon. Twenty seven brilliantly beautiful kites hanging just beneath the puffy clouds, little green lights phosphorescent in the night.

The monkeys scattering the offerings to the gods in wilful guileless blasphemy.

This dirty town of gentle people and absolutely no road rage despite the chaos on the streets.

Cool soft girls in white linen, lotus blossoms floating in alabaster bowls. Incense and breeze. Eyes averted.

When Charlie climbed those ladder-like stairs it wasn’t what he expected but he decided to go with it anyway. “I’m in an other place, I should put aside my small town ideas and my prejudices”. So what he found was something at once disturbing and transformative.

The people in that place have some weird rituals, they eat strange foods, prepare their food in ways you and I

would think was not…. acceptable.

They are quietly modest and elaborately profane.

They drink the water that you and I cannot drink.

They spend hours weaving from pampas grass and onion flower exquisite shapes which are then laid out in stone temples in the wind (and which the monkeys defile).

In the morning Madé and Kamang clean away the scatterings and start weaving again.

So I met Charlie when I was 17 and there was an immediate spark that said that we would bind and be forever mystically entwined. Sometimes I am he and he is me, it can be disconcerting. I used to always know when he was coming to visit, or even when he would phone me. It was spooky like that. Geographically and metaphysically we diverged long ago, but there has always been a connection. I knew I would find him here but I must have suppressed the thought. When I ran into him in the Love Anchor market I felt a jolt of panic. I was looking into the sun and he appeared, smiling and with the light making a halo of his golden hair. We hugged, exchanged WhatsApps and suddenly he was gone again, “Things to do”.

I made my way back to the villa, a little dazed and deflated.

…

Charlie thought he’d get a massage but he found himself pushed by strong but gentle hands through a chink in the wall of his conscience (and his belief system). Found himself in a place all wobbly and beautiful.

It reminded him of his sister’s house. It’s in a garden behind a rusty fence made of steel pickets like spears. The walls and floors are crooked and there are no beds. You have to sleep in a cavity through a hatch, under the floor. Or on a hard wooden daybed on the veranda, which is impossible because of the mosquitoes, and there are never any sheets or blankets.

So he seldom visits his sister, perhaps that’s why she got rid of the beds, to make him stay away?

He’s forgotten now why he was reminded, but it doesn’t matter. He’s trying to talk to this dark-eyed and tattooed Balinese guy, but he doesn’t speak English so it’s all eye movements and gestures and maybe Charlie just agreed to something else he didn’t expect…..

Further out of town, over in Canguu, where all the expats live, I met up with him at a dark table at the Revolver cafe. We ate bread and honey and drank their rich brown coffee, mostly in silence. He seemed altered, and didn’t explain why, so I didn’t probe. I guessed he’d get around to it when he was ready.

He said he had seen angels. And one of them hovered over him and somehow merged with him and was gone. I took this as some kind of allegory, presumed he’d explain it one day.

I told him Canguu is a nice place but you need to be careful, you don’t want to end up in Kerobokan Prison. We’ve all heard about what happens in that place.

He just smiled.

Got my wheels in Canguu and joined the crazy horde on those narrow streets and laneways. A thousand Yamahas are coming at you beeping and laughing and we all flow together in some great wave of happiness that moves and surges like summer clouds in the bright morning.

On the big road through town the high camera lights flash “don’t do that, don’t do that” but no-one pays them any attention. Everyone straying from their lane. Across the fresh new bitumen on the shortcut, round the esses through the little forest and down over the cobblestones, we’re all just sailors on the wind rushing to or from the next whatever and hoping we don’t slip off the edge.

I tried to visit Charlie’s sister to ask about what she did with the bedrooms but they were holding some kind of Pentecostal Revival meeting, all waving hands and speaking in tongues, so I left (if you told me I was having a bad dream I would have believed you).

She called out to me as I turned the key, “please stay, you might like it”, but as the motor shuddered into life I shuddered, probably visibly, and her face fell. I had no time for her blond and blue-eyed pale skinned Jesus.

Instead I went to yet another beach bar to watch the fading day. The sun did its thing with the clouds, just so casually spectacular as we all sat spellbound.

A skinny yellow dog came and sat beside us on the sand. I felt as if I had been adopted, or I had been sent a guardian.

I was right: when we left he came with us and as we rode through the streets he ran behind until we put on speed and he disappeared in the blurry rear vision.

Later in the night there were dreams of the 1960s. My Chelsea Hotel was the YMCA in South Melbourne, also a place of discovery and enlightenment. They tore it down in the seventies and built the NGV. One arthouse replaced by another.

In those days I had little money but bought bowls of happiness from the Golden Panda in Bourke Street for 60 cents, enough to sustain me on wintry nights in that grey town.

In my dream I knew I was dreaming and I bathed in that soft nostalgia until the yellow dog reappeared with Charlie’s eyes and sleep departed.

For the next few days we wandered around the town like tourists. I thought we might find the dog somewhere but he didn’t show. We bartered for the usual trinkets and t-shirts in the marketplace and spent warm dreamless nights in the white stone villa in Umalas.

I never got to Dreamland Beach although it seemed like a place I should go. Maybe next time. It inspired me, like this night sky, these words and sounds, this light. So far it’s just a place on a map, just a name that evokes a warm glow.

A month later I got a letter from Charlie, it was a photograph of Tanah Lot, nothing else, no words.

“Nothing lasts forever” Charlie had said as he walked away from me across the rice field, those tall soft grasses gently shifting in the wind. I didn’t want to hear it, so I hitched a Grab ride to Ngurah Rai to go back to my world.

And to ascend.

And to not regret.

They’ve lowered the cabin lights, everyone is sleeping except for me.

Now the moon reveals herself, out from behind her silver shroud, while no one is looking.

Of all the manufactured glories that shine below her, none can match her splendour.

Splendid silver gold

light.

#Denpasar #flight #night #the light #moonlight #bali #short story #canggu

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