#Sonnets. Lucien Young

show I binge

      Whilst laid in bed, these eyes abjuring rest,

      Whose thrills allow no other to impinge

      On those few hours of mine with freedom blessed,

      Such is my love; thou art my sole download,

      The one Must See for which my passion burns.

      When credits roll, ‘Just one more episode!’

      I cry, enraptured by thy twists and turns.

      Yet thou art greater still, for series finish,

      Or else decline and lose their former spark;

      But seasons’ march shall not thy grace diminish,

      Nor shall thy loveliness e’er jump the shark.

      While men still breathe and God maintains His station,

      This love of ours shall ne’er know cancellation.

      TINDER

      1.

      My heart aflame, I swipe with finger deft

      The myriad nymphs who dance before my sight,

      And, for each one I banish to the left,

      My horniness doth hurl a thousand right.

      I think myself a Roman emperor

      Whose twitching thumb commands the fatal strike.

      Shall this new girl feel my contempt for her

      Or else be humbled by my super like?

      Then I despair, perceiving what the catch is:

      My profile pic these girls approveth not

      And soon enough my few enticing matches

      Reveal themselves a false and thieving bot.

      Then do I pity those I leftward nudged,

      For as one judges, so must one be judged.

      2.

      Untender Tinder, how thou feedst my doubt

      When thine erotic Rolodex I spin

      And see each face congealed in fish-like pout

      And ev’ry bio boasting love of gin.

      Too oft my lust is cruelly thrown off kilter

      When women of their basic pastimes shout,

      Or else their beauties burden with that filter

      That doth impose on them a canine snout.

      And yet, alas, I vainly make this fuss:

      I still shall swipe, albeit with teeth gritted,

      And, though I may refrain from Tinder Plus,

      I wholly lack the fortitude to quit it.

      For I prefer to burn in Tinder’s hell

      Than e’er approach a lady IRL.

      3.

      Full oft have I thine algorithm cursed

      And scorned thy slick and faithless interface,

      Or else thy users’ tawdry tics rehearsed,

      Thou base usurper of romance’s place!

      But now my heart thy kind forgiveness begs,

      For, though I stand by ev’ry censure made,

      And rue each squandered swipe through dating’s dregs,

      Each sparkless match, each compliment I paid,

      On thee I found her: she who lights my life,

      Who from love’s endless game would set me free.

      And, though thou mayst have yielded years of strife,

      Thou, pocket Pandarus, broughtst her to me

      At whose sweet touch all former shames collapse.

      Thus, Tinder, I proclaim thee king of apps!

      FACEBOOK

      Say not thou art my friend, when thou hast broke

      My heart a thousand times with careless talk

      And daily dost that injured organ poke

      By letting me my former girlfriends stalk.

      Because of thee, my fingers are as traitors

      Each time they rush to type a comment lame,

      Or else betray me in some try-hard status

      That shames my feed as it doth feed my shame.

      And though I swear I shall abjure thy site,

      Thou Book of Faces, granting thus my heart ease,

      I check thee still with joyless appetite

      (And plus, in fairness, thou art good for parties).

      Therefore I am, each day, of freedom shorn

      By thee, Mark Zuckerberg’s unholy spawn.

      AUSTIN POWERS

      What need have I of Craig or Connery,

      Whose dark and dismal exploits doth dismay me?

      Such sullen spies are but thy Mini-Me;

      Thou art incomparably more groovy, baby.

      Thou shagg’st and sport’st thy Union Jack pants well

      And, when I glimpse that patriotic rump,

      Then love of country in my chest doth swell,

      Like to a penis in a Swedish pump.

      Fear not that Dr Evil shall prevail,

      Try as he might thy mojo to oppose,

      Nor shall Time triumph where the Fembots fail

      And bring thy swinging antics to a close.

      For thine example cannot be outlasted:

      Thy name looms larger than thy foe, Fat Bastard.

      PLASTIC SURGERY

      Sweet surgeon, fetch thy scalpel and syringe,

      For with abundant faults I am bestowed:

      Smooth out those lines that on my brow impinge,

      Relieve these eye-bags of their heavy load.

      Then lend some strength to this unmanly jaw,

      Erase the scars of acne’s cruel eruption,

      Each tufted mole remove, lost youth restore,

      And purge my back fat with thy liposuction!

      Yet no — I pray, withhold thy anaesthetic.

      My mind is changed: imperfect shall I stay,

      For though my form is pasty and pathetic,

      My love proclaims she loves me anyway.

      Thus is self-hate cast off by means fantastic

      And, having love, I have no need of plastic.

      NETFLIX

      How I do thrill