Sidney: Buck Up, Astrophil

It’s sad that you think
that even women on the moon
would turn you down. Ouch.

Ashbery: Kevin Again Struggles with 20th–Century Poetry

Perhaps I’m being
obtuse, but WHAT THE FUCK DOES
ANY OF THAT MEAN?

Malory: Polysyllabic Arthurian Assholes

Turns out “Guinevere”
and “Launcelot” are hard names
to cram into a

More: The Purges Will Begin on Tuesday

My ideal kingdom
has just one law: no pants. And
no fugly people.

Poe: It’s Not the Same Usher? Oh, Nevermind

The saddest part is
that there’ll be no more hot beats
to mac ladies with.

H.D.: Well, That’s Not Actually Poetry

Look—I can be an
Imagist, too: seashell, moon,
tree, Amen, anus.

The Faerie Queene: Elizabeth, Age 63, Lacking Teeth and Hair

There is not enough
allegory in the world to
make that bitch pretty.

Shelley: But Then Again, You Never Did Anything Good For Humanity

I wish it was you
out there on that rock, getting
your liver pecked out.

Langland: Reason #3,428 Why My Life Is Nothing Like "Piers Plowman"

In my dreams, I don’t
see Jesus—just the usual
face-eating monkeys.

Franklin: I'll Get You the Money By Tuesday, I Swear

I can see why you’re
on the twenty, Ben: you’re a
dick about money.

Ellison: From the White, Male Establishment

Mister Narrator,
on behalf of us all, I
want to say: our bad.

Wycherley: Mrs. Pinchwife’s Infidelity Is Just…

More proof that I should
keep locking Jessie in the
basement while I’m out.

Fielding: Three Things I Have In Common With Tom Jones

A generous heart,
dedication to friends, and
a love of titties.

Thoreau: It Doesn’t Count As Ownership If You Borrow Everything

Henry: Bring back my
axe, you mooching, lazy fuck.
--Your goddamned neighbor

Keats: Little Known Historical Fact

TB didn’t kill
Keats. Chuck Norris did. In a
rhymed-couplet cage match.

Milton (1): In Your Face, Milton

I may never write
the world’s greatest poem, but
at least I can see.

Milton (2): I Frequently Confuse the Two

Misogyny! Snakes!
Fire! Paradise Lost...or
Indiana Jones?

Stoppard's Arcadia: Why Never to Read the Production Notes

All I can see now
is Bill Nighy plowing an
eighteen-year-old girl.

Sir Gawain (1): I’m Glad It Wasn’t My Feast

If a guy came to
my party and got beheaded,
I would poop myself.

Sir Gawain (2): King Arthur Is So Lame

No, it’s cool, Gawain.
You go. I’ll hang out here with
the wenches. Peace out.

Clarissa: My Marginalia Begins and Ends on the First Page

No no no no no
no, good fucking god, no more
fucking Richardson.