Sunday, May 31, 2009

Liberace Contest Winner

Liberace Contest Winner

“Lotto Queen arrives in
Las Vegas by Leer Jet”
—The LA Times

The Strip—may sparkle
And the Neon—may shine
But nowhere—in Las Vegas
Does Exuberance—glow
Like Liberace—The Divine!!!

The Keyboard—Temple
At Liberace Plaza—there on
Tropicana Avenue—with its
Pink neon—Grand Piano
Lighting up—the Night Sky!!!

The Piano Gallery—his Altar
A rhinestone-encrusted Baldwin
Grand—a hand-painted Pleyel
George Gershwin’s—Chickering
Grand—18 rare antique pianos!!!

Liberace’s famous—sequined
Costumes—feathered capes and
Furs in the—remarkable lavish
Liberace—Costume Gallery

His incredible—rhinestone-lined
Full-length—Black Diamond Mink
Cape—and lovely “King Neptune”
Costume—with infamous red
White and blue hot pants suit!!!

The Thrill of a Lifetime—awaits you
Chauffeured in Liberace’s—mirrored
Convertible—Elvis & you out for a
Midnight cruise—on the Strip!!!

To say nothing of—a perfect evening
Spent in Liberace’s—master bedroom
With Elvis the Pelvis—between silk
Sheets—on a nice Louis XV bed plus
A comfy—Czar Nicholas commode!!!!

The Escape of Oscar Wilde

The Escape of Oscar Wilde
—for Sir John Benjeman

He slipped out the backdoor quietly
Escaping all the London lies
Through the Nottingham dark back-alleys
With his glazed Yellow Book eyes

Robbie and Oscar sped quickly
Down Pont Street like a pair of thieves
Little did jolly England know the
Importance of Oscar’s Pet Peeves

They hustled him onboard the yacht
Procured by his dear friend Harris
Leaving behind all the rude cretins
Led by Bosie’s father to embarrass

“Fetch my astrakham coat,” he said
“And my Morocco portmanteau
There in my rooms at the Savoy—
May the winds in the sails blow!!!”

With a swish and a sigh of relief
Wilde made it safely to gay Paris
Where he became Poet-in-Exile
With witty plays that still dare us

Bosie joined him on the Left Bank
Publishing a radically new Yellow Book
Illustrated by Miss Beardsley nicely
Giving the gay movement a new look

From then on the Victorian closet
Fell apart rather grandly my dear
And what’s known as Post-Stonewall
Became Windermere’s Fan so queer!!!

Saturday, May 30, 2009

My American Boyfriend

My American Boyfriend

My American boyfriend—such a doll
All my sisters—green with jealousy
Wherever I showed—him off
Between girlfriends—letting him
Flaunt his male beauty—the way
Boss Cupid does it—vainly

Being on the—college gym team
Always helps—the way he didn’t
Take showers—like Arthur Rimbaud
The way I gave—him tongue-baths
Like Verlaine—in Left Bank dives
And London attics—in the rain

Bulging biceps—a life of their own
Twisting at night—in dream Gyms
Flat hard stomach—xylophone smooth
Tight pectoral wings—spreading out
Sleeping in my—dumpy apartment
Protruding bellybutton—so suckable

So cute in his—ROTC cadet uniform
Making me feel—so awfully AWOL
His big bazooka—bulging down there
His Venus torso—sleek thin waist
Marching away—so red white & blue
Me just a stupid—puddle of goo

My American boyfriend—so cute
Back then in the Sixties—when we
Smoked dope—Baby Boomers boyz
So naïve about—Nam & Kent State
Now we’re—Pukey Ponzi Patsies
You know kinda—Tiananmen Lite?

Friday, May 29, 2009

My Bulgarian Boyfriend

My Bulgarian Boyfriend

I met him—at a four-star hotel
In the sofa-filled lobby—one night
In Turgovishte—northern Bulgaria

Slavic eyes—always turn me on
And those bedroom—drooping eyelids
What a—somnambulistic beauty

The hotel didn’t—ban the women
From the lobby—it would be bad for
Business—customers paid for rooms

He was a young pimp—among all the
Usual clients—cops, politicians, dealers
Professors, actors—foreigners like me

Some came to Bulgaria—just for that
But the sex trade—didn’t interest me
I was more interested—in architecture

Lovely cathedrals—in Varna, Burgas
Razgrad, Dobrich, Shumen—but also
Albania, Romania—and Moldova too

He gave me—the sob story of course
He pimped to support—his ill mother
And his crippled—14-year-old sister

“If I stopped pimping—who’d support
my family?”—he said lying thru his
Teeth—knowing I didn’t believe him
His name was—Svetoslav Spasov
And he looked—under 18 like all the
Young girls in the—nice swanky lobby

The flow of drugs—and disease made
Life inevitably risky—unfettered sex
Trafficking—made life short and hard

He didn’t believe—me either about
Church architecture—and all that jive
Smoking a cigarette—nude in bed

Young Svetoslav Spasov—got spastic
A couple of times—for me that night
His girls in the lobby—didn’t miss him

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

My Mormon Boyfriend

My Mormon Boyfriend

“a faint sneer of thunder
up in the woods”
—Carol Ann Duffy,
“from Mrs. Tiresias,”
The World’s Wife

I turned to my—handsome Mormon boyfriend
Stretched out in bed—smoking his cigarette
There in the No Tell Motel—in Salt Lake City

Praise the Lord—Mormon boyz are so cute!!!
Every time I’m in—lovely Salt Lake City
I get a hard-on—in the Great Tabernacle!!!

That huge organ—blaring into the sky
Oh Lordy!!! It makes me faint in the knees!!!
It makes me lose it—in the holy pews!!!

Those happy Heteros—helplessly insane
When I get my lips—on Jimmy Swaggart
Naked in that lovely—New Orleans motel!!!

Jerry Fartwell—wasn’t too bad either
Snorting Nitrous Oxide—into the Aether!!!
Lordy!!! Lordy!!!—how he made me blush!!!

Hurricane Katrina—such a nasty Killer
But we all know—the Mardi Gras faggots
Brought down—Sodom and Miss Gomorrah!!!
When to disarm—my Mormon boyfriend
I schmooze away—soothing his male ego
Applauding Proposition Hate’s—facile façade

When I drop names—proud Princeton pricks!!!
How I lie—through my tacky false teeth
How he worships—my hoity-toity smirk!!!

My country club suavity—my Wall Street dreck
What a smarmy millionaire I am—how I fly!!!
Piss-poor Ponzi bankrupt—skating on thin ice

Like Bernie Madoff—so calm kind wise
Pour me another scotch & soda—make it strong
My latest merger—taking over General Motors

If he only knew—the country’s going under
Ask Arnold Schwarzenegger—happy clown!!!
The American Dream—a Dairy Queen Titanic

How he loves my—Miss Lonelyhearts spiel
You too can be—Hetero, Happy and Wise!!!
See my Golden Parachute—open & fail?

Proposition Hate—C’mon it’s not too late
There’s still time, baby—for another Inquisition
Those 18,000 that got thru—we gotta wreck!!!

We can’t have all those—Glen and Glendas!!!
Parading around in drag—wearing Angora!!!
Time for another—Plan 9 From Outer Space!!!

No more nelly Ed Wood Jr.—Hollywood jive!!!
Fuck Bela Lugosi—Bride of the Monster yuk!!!
Time to resurrect—Charlton Heston again!!!

Give ‘em—The Ten Commandments, baby!!!
And while you’re at it—give ‘em Twelve Inches too!!!
Poor famished creatures—craven Californians!!!

But here in lovely gorgeous—Salt Lake City
Far away from all that—mad West Coast faggotry
Me & my cute Mormon boyfriend—we get down!!!

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Translating California (2009)

Translating California (2009)

“…and much of the poetry,
alas, is lost in translation”
—Carol Ann Duffy, “Translating
the English, 1989,” The Other Country

Welcome to California! You'll love Hollywood!!!
Edwina Schwarzenegger—and Robin Hood!!!
The weather is sunny—despite the smoggy shit
Especially in May—cold-blooded Mormons love it!!!

You'll love Norma Desmond—what a fucking dame!!!
Talk about Sunset Boulevard—kept men so tame!!!
Dead bodies in swimming pools—like William Holden
Floating face-downwards—still quite glib and golden!!!

Just the other day—I gawked in rapt wonder
Tricky Dick Nixon—and Ronnie Reagan’s plunder
Doing crack, smack—and Carling Black Label
All the windbags—the Supremes with their Fable

Just think my dears—about the Rich and Famous
Their Perks and Ponzi deals—yet still they blame us
California State is going down—what the fuck!!!
Maybe they’ll bail us out too—with a little luck?

The Mormon Mob (52%)—rules the West Coast
We’re not going to let—the Homosexuals boast
There’s not enough left—for all us Honky Heteros
Let them eat cake—the queers, dykes & metro’s
Welcome to California—Hollywood Babylon Boy!!!
Where men like Tarzan—swing from vines so coy
Where a woman like Jane—never complains
Lovely Tree Houses—up & down suburban lanes

After all the Good Book—says it’s true, my dear
It was Adam & Steve—Eve & Queen Guinevere
Who gave the world—such Ecumenical Hope
Even though broke—we’ll simply tax dope!!!

We’ll ditch the—poor, Hispanics & the queers
That way surely we’ll—quell all our awful fears
We’ll stand proud & true—for Jaysus Inc!!!
Welcome to California—get here before we sink!!!

Monday, May 25, 2009

Flying Male Nude

Flying Male Nude

“You did it.
What. Didn’t you.
Fuck. Fuck. No.”
—Carol Ann Duffy
“Adultery,” Mean Time

How to get beyond—Flying Male Nude
How to subvert—the classical traditions of
Male (voyeur) poet—and female muse
Ditching the Pork—illusions of Amor
As dangerous—pathetic and negated
Then paradoxically—perpetuated

Engagement with—real amorous lyrics
And alienation—how to phrase it here
In the modern—urban landscapes with
Dramatic monologue—like Browning,
T.S. Eliot and Sylvia Plath—Arielesque
Sylvia trashing—Big Daddy & Hughes

Shall we go down—the crummy Rap Sheet?
Cradle snatchers—obnoxious poets & hunters
Bad lovers, greedy capitalists—boring husbands
Whining jealous spiteful lovers—obsessives
Penis worshippers—libertine princes & devils
Naked apes—and the usual ubiquitous pigs

Fuck the roses, sheets doves—blood & pearls
Fuck the smoke, tongues—the stormy sea
Fuck the moon, the stars—the Milky Way
Give me Porky Pig, pork chops—money
Cell-phones, watches, cabs—nightclubs
Hustlers, pimps—and of course Adultery

Becoming—more & more Metrosexual
No more triumphant—postmodern pigshit
Me & my kind—androgynous sexual swine
Flying here nude—I’m transgressive
Naked as late capitalism—pig with wings
My lost twenty-first century—“dirty weekend”

Theodor Adorno—gazes at the Internet
All the hard-core sex flicks—online porno
“Is poetry possible—after You Tube Love?”
Strangers in malls—cell-phoning back home
Staring thru all the people—who don’t exist
Viagra turning aged tycoons—into errant studs

Flying nude—in the light rail stations
“This is me speaking”—I say to nobody
I’ve got a plug in my ear—talking to myself
Urban dramatic monologue—lover’s discourse
But there’s nobody home—sorry wrong number
I’m a ventriloquist pig—sitting on my own lap

I remember me—what made me different?
Before automatic oinking—took over my life
Dali’s lobster telephone—Buñuel’s slit eye?
I remember—The Exterminating Angel
The fucked-up possibilities—of urban banality
Especially fucked-up parents—like Larkin said

Fritz Lang’s Metropolis—art deco nightmare?
Littered with lovers—alienated urban cityscapes
Amorous pig-pens—oppressive hog slaughter
Late capitalism porno—constantly shitting
Parasitic techno-swinery—consumer culture
Porcine commitments—postmodern romance

Pretty soon polymorphous love—turns into what
Else but pig psychopaths—homicidal maniacs
Masculine desire—coupled with POMO predilections
Postwar military-industrial-intelligence—complexes
Medical-hospital-insurance scams—profiteering
All pigs are equal—except some pigs greedier

The World’s Husband—Viagra-fueled sex fiends
Men as pigs—better sizzling on barbeque spits
The socioerotic life of Oink—porky romances
What’s so great about it—this fake eroticism?
Preordained with perverse—Porky Pig stories?
Harlequin novel stereotypes—make me puke!!!

The same old Victorian—Epithalamion pigshit
Male sonnets full of—cream, cakes & crummy
Bouquets of the same old—wilting ratty Roses
All that male amorous desire—“Perilous Storm
Tossed Seas”—and Sidney’s “My Dear, why
Make me more of a pig—than I really am?”

Free-floating eroticism—blogged broadbanded
Flourishing erotic marvels—ensconced in the

Postmodern telecity—transgressive sex and
Cash-machine booths—beautiful models on TV
In the airports—on the subways and trains
And in the elevators—lovely oink chambers

The World’s Husband—Flying Male Nude
Me Tarzan, You Jane—I’m a working-class
Pig Man—the “purple vein” throbbing in my
Big fat neck—the purple vein slithering in
My Porky Pig—ho-hum throbbing penis
Hot Shit Pighood—“I really love you”

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Madame Tiresias

Madame Tiresias

“Then he started his period.
One week in bed. Two doctors in.
Three painkillers four times a day.”
—Carol Ann Duffy, “from Mrs. Tiresias,”
The World’s Wife

Well, my dears—all I can say
Is that I always—in the back of
My mind—thought my husband
Was rather “gay”—as they say

Not “gay”—the happy frivolous
Old-fashioned—“ca sera sera” way
With that charming—nonchalant
“Come what may”—Flippancy

Even tho—there were hints
Along the way—like his fondness
For my Angora sweaters—and
His love of—Ed Wood Jr. movies

He talked to himself—like a woman
As though something—was constantly
Changing inside him—rearranging
The face—which stared at me

He was always—a self-important twit
Walking his dog—with his stick and
Open-necked shirt—his jacket of
Harris tweed—patched at the sleeves

Far from being—a ham-fisted male
He was actually better—at blow-drying
His hair than me—with his shopping and
Periods opening—new Pontifications

Telling women out there—tidying his hair
That he knew how they—felt even better
Than they—since his asexual transformation
Gave him insights—worthy of gay Jupiter!!!

No wonder I was indignant—like Juno
My husband Tiresias—bragging about having
The best of both worlds—cruising about
The gymnasiums and dark porticoes

While at the same time—enjoying the fruits
Of those ruttish daughters—of the Sun and
Penetrating the—sacred gynaceum where
Not a single prick—of Eros was permitted

Was I not the authentic—Mrs. Tiresias?
While my husband—incorrigibly a male whore
Suddenly gifted—and transfixed with Venusian
Physical beauty—more sexy alluring than me?

My husband seem blinded—by Juno herself
Or was it me plagued—by doubts & migraines
About myself instead of him—the faint stirrings
Of Sapphic desire—and even Lesbian lust?

Of course—my rather vain husband Tiresias
Always was a little bit—like Narcissus
In love with himself—like all males are
The usual tragic trope—of Masculinity

Go down the List—satirically of course
Orpheus, Sisyphus—and Midas being
Obsessed and—self-obsessed with their
Own vanity—proving to be their undoing

But now Madame Tiresias—my husband
Grew insufferable—taking on the ugly pose
Of Little Red Riding Hood’s—frail disguised
Grandmother—but actually a terrible Wolf

An even worse Wolf—than the Fairy Tale one
Re-writing the myth—as only a misogynist
Ted Hughes could do—repulsive Gamekeeper
Posing as—Lady Chatterley’s Nightmare Lover

Hughes was good at it—being poet laureate
It was easy for him—to be Ovid’s Pygmalion
Because he hated—Sylvia Plath so very much
She haunted him—long into Birthday Letters

My husband Tiresias—became Propoetidesian
The object of his own revulsion—denying the
Divinity of Venus—turning into a hardened
Prostitute—embellishing the classic Harpy

His womanly uterus—turning into a spider
His face, voice, gestures—hair into its web
His perfume a floating horror—his glance
Leaving a spider-bite—he couldn’t control it

He became cold—like snow or ivory
I thought he/she—wouldn’t touch me
But he did—thinking girly things and
Kvetching all night—about his kisses

He began to moan—getting hot & wild
Arching, coiling—writhing like a child
And during his climax—oozing like a
Canned peach—slipping into the sheets

But even worse—his tacky portrayal of
The “Big O” himself—Orpheus the vain
Fallible insecure—modern career-poet
Whose perfect mastery—charmed nothing

Naturally as Eurydice—I preferred Hades
That place of “Eternal Repose”—that final
Full stop in Darkness—Dis where words
Finally & completely—came to an End

Tiresias was becoming—rather tiring
The world of language—and transsexuals
Had become less—lyrically desirable
The Dead more talented—wise in silence

Circe the Sorceress—along with Eurydice
Madame Sosostris—and Margaret Thatcher
We all played Bridge—down in Hotel Hades
Reading the beads—of stogy Porky Pigs

“When the heart—of a pig has hardened”
Circe said—her acerbic cookery satire advice
“Then dice it small, my dears”—she should
Know dining on—Odysseus’ porcine crew

No one was more susceptible—to love
Than Circe nude—slipping off her dress
Wading breast-deep in the sea—waving
And calling—swimming on her back

And only Circe—man-eating cook having
Lost her girlish Romanticism—could evoke
That lost & lamented Eroticism—hardening
Of heart—plus sharpening of knives

But worse than menstruation—was Medusa
How my husband—was made hideous by
Athena in a fit of jealous rage—when he
Hustled a Poseidon sailor—and got beat up

Tiresias no longer—brooded over bisexuality
When he got rolled and robbed—becoming
Bitter and full of—ironic ambiguity about sex
And the seduction—of handsome young men

He had to have—cosmetic surgery done
His black & blue bedroom eyes—his fractured
Once-lovely Lord Byron jaw—jutting confidently
Into the dives—and back alleys of male desire

Rough trade and tricking—dangerous sports
He was flagrant—but not getting any younger
Now the sorrowing cliché—of a once lovely diva
“Was I not once—fragrant, young & alluring?”

As usual my poor husband—fell into the trap
Of those beguiled women—prayed upon by
Joseph Cotton—as Uncle Charlie Oakley in
Shadow of a Doubt (1943)—then done in

I realized that—there was something Dionysian
About my former husband—Madame Tiresias
He shared the power of—Circe, Eurydice, Medusa
But he lacked their solid—no nonsense psyche

He was like—Mrs. Midas and Mrs. Sisyphus
Similar to Mrs. Icarus—all the Ovidian women
But he would truly—could never be like them
His only hope was to—become Persephone

I was like Demeter—he my Chester Kallman
Shamelessly willing to be—possessed by Hades
Whether young Greek soldiers—butch Brooklyn
Sailors or rough trade—wanting to be mastered

And like Auden’s tender—Motherly love
Waiting for her daughter—to return from Hell
I waited for my husband—to walk over fields
In bare feet—bringing me a bouquet of roses

My daughter, my girl—my dearest husband
Transformed by the—return of Spring again
Renewed by the remoteness—of Underworld
Attractions—into a New Lover just for me

Answering Back

Arthur Rimbaud
Answering Back

“For this anthology, Answering Back, I invited the best of our contemporary poets to select a poem, or poem in translation, from a poet from the past which they would like to answer in some way.”—Carol Ann Duffy, editor, Answering Back: Living poets reply to the poetry of the past (2007)

After reading this Carol Ann Duffy’s anthology, I picked a poem by Gregory Woods entitled “Rimbaud in Harar” from his book May I Say Nothing (Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1998). And then I did the “Answering Back” exercise and came up with my poem entitled “Verlaine in Prison.” I looked at young Rimbaud from the point of view of Paul Verlaine—and how their relationship ended in violence. Below is Gregory Woods’ poem—and how I answered back. Not only to him—but to Rimbaud and Verlaine as well.

Rimbaud in Harar
—by Gregory Woods

I used to have the kind of body men
Would sell their souls for, and was heartened when

One did. A bourgeois poet gave me dosh
For licking me (I never used to wash)

And for the things I wrote. To tell the truth
I merely simulated the uncouth

But he was mesmerized. He loved my verse
My arse, my filthy turn of phrase and, worse

My bullet wound. Well now I’m out of harm’s
Way, writing nothing, sizzled, selling arms

Verlaine in Prison

I aimed the gun—at his groin
If I couldn’t have it—nobody would

Rimbaud saw it coming—protecting
Himself down there—with his hand

I was desperate—he was leaving me
My wife and mother—on the train

I closed my eyes—pulled the trigger
The bullet hit Arthur’s—pale palm

It missed his manhood—so young
And so virile—once all mine

They called the cops—I was jailed
I ended up in prison—he escaped

For years I sulked—on the Left Bank
Absinthe & whores—my only friends

Still thinking every day—about him
My haughty teen voyant—in Harar

Romeo and Juliet

Romeo and Juliet

“SEATTLE (AP)—A teacher
who became notorious in
the 1990s for having an
affair with a sixth-grader
is hosting a "Hot for Teacher"
night at a Seattle bar—along
with the former student,
now her husband.”
—The Seattle Post-Intelligencer
May 22, 2009

Oh Romeo—young Romeo!!!
Boy Adonis—of the Sixth grade!!!
Wherefore art thou—in the backseat?

Vili Fualaau—exquisite chicken on the sofa
Doing homework—with your lovely teacher
Mary Kay Letourneau—who loved you so

Like Leonardo DeCaprio—and Claire Danes
Updating Shakespeare—to hip modern Verona
Classic story of Romeo & Juliet—here in Seattle

You had to hide—your love from the world
Because you knew—it was terribly taboo
Like the Montagues—and feuding Capulets

Mary Kay Letourneau—and Vili Fualaau
Star-crossed lovers—infamous romance
All these years later—your love still lasts

Married in 2005—with two daughters
Vili as DJ—at Fuel Sports Eats & Beats
Mary Kay smiling—“Hot for Teacher” Night

After all the hubbub—and recriminations
Tybalt jealous cousin—gone with Mercutio
This Polynesian love-story—what to say?

In Memory of Sylvia Plath

In Memory of Sylvia Plath

“For poetry makes—
nothing happen”
—W.H. Auden, “In Memory
of W.B. Yeats,” Another Time

“Love’s language
starts, stops, starts;
the right words
flowing or clotting
in the heart”
—Carol Ann Duffy
“Syntax,” Rapture

She disappeared—in the dead of winter
The pipes were frozen—the streets deserted
Her husband—had abandoned her for Assia
She warmed up the oven—as the mercury sank
Leaving the Ariel manuscript—on her desk
The day of her death—nobody left to thank

Far away in the dark—
The wolves in Regency Park—howled at night
The full moon tempted them—as well as her
Both wolves and wife—their mourning tongues
The death of a poet—was soon to come

For Sylvia it was—her last night to herself
An evening of fever—and fashionable poems
The provinces of her poetry—had revolted
The squares and hacks—wouldn’t be ready
Ariel would invade the future—as never before
Caliban had won—but Sylvia’s muse would fly

Now she scattered—among a thousand cities
And readers were given—unfamiliar insights
There was no happiness—in her marriage
Something punished her—a code of silence
The words of a dead woman—speak better
Than the words of her—poet laureate husband

What’s important—had lost all its importance
Mytholmroyd and Yorkshire—not really her home
The minions of the moors—beasts on the floor
Compared with the Duchess—from America
She had class—and class-consciousness too
Her loutish husband—the grim gamekeeper

But what books—and poetry
She left for us—at the end of the day

Saturday, May 23, 2009

O Tell Me the Truth About Love

O Tell Me the Truth About Love

Thom Gunn says—love's a Boss Cupid
And Shakespeare says—it’s a Darke Lady
Some say—it’s a trick in a Tea Room
Some say—ask Miss Lonelyhearts
And when I asked—the boy next-door
Who looked—as if he knew
He smiled at me—cross-eyed
And showed me—what he could do
Does it look like—a pair of shorts
Or a hambone—ready to gnaw on?
Does its odor—remind one of tennis shoes?
That comforting YMCA—smell so divine?
Is it prickly to touch—like a rose bush?
Or soft as—an upper lip’s peach-fuzz?
Is it awkward—long and gangly?
O tell me the truth—about love
Lolita—and Lady Chatterley’s Lover
Allude to it—in hushed cryptic tones
It's quite the—scandalous headline
The National Enquirer—so very lewd
I've found the subject—mentioned in
Accounts of ovens, poets—and suicides
And even seen it—scribbled on walls
In Minneapolis—Airport bathrooms
Does it howl like—like Miss O’Reilly?
Talking Head—of roguery FOX-News?
Is it romantic—like Guantánamo Bay?
Does it hurt—like Abu Ghraib foreplay?
Is it fun—like a Perky Ponzi Party?
Does it go well—with Caviar & Champaign?
Does it stop—when one gets exhausted?
O tell me the truth—about love
I looked inside—my closet
It wasn't there—or anywhere
I tried the statues—at Marienbad
And the mirrors—of Versailles
I listened to—Billie Holiday sing
The Blues—and Judy Garland weep
But it wasn't—under the bed
O tell me the truth—about love
Does it happen—in a crowded room
Somebody catches your eye—and winks?
Does it make you—weak in the knees?
Does it make you—feel sick in your stomach?
Do you like to fiddle—with his curls in the dark?
Does it cost lots of money—like a kept man?
Does it think Pretty Boy—is all you need?
Are Love Stories—vulgar & vivacious?
O tell me the truth—about love
When it comes—will it nonchalantly?
Like some boy—picking his nose?
Will it rob me blind—like some hustler?
Or run over me—like Paolo Pasolini?
Will it come like a—breath of fresh air?
Will it be discourteous—like rough-trade?
Will it change my life—forever and ever?
O tell me the truth about love.

Friday, May 22, 2009

Letter to Chester Kallman

Letter to Chester Kallman
“do not write your biography—
for your childhood is literally
the whole”—W.H. Auden

Sensuous youth—dear Chester
Half angel—sulky half petite bête
Like Miles—in Turn of the Screw
And naturally—I was Peter Quint
Re-knowing myself—through you
After all I was dead—according to
Miss James—and I started living
Again through you—heavy date
Inside a youth’s body—our love
Equal to the real thing—elusive
And precocious—thrown out of
School—love consisting of me
And you—looking in the same
Direction—a blonde teenager
Catching me—in a prelude to
Sartre’s No Exit—recognizing the
Power to punish—your tyranny
So easy—I was only to willing
To be invited—to the eternal
Dinner-party—all the sullen
Guests—Chicken of the Sea…

Letter to Chester Kallman

Letter to Chester Kallman

“When I do get back to the city
I expect to spend all of my time
Flat on my stomach biting the
Pillows, listening to the music
Of the bed springs”
—Chester Kallman

You were my—aching Achilles heel
How could you do wrong—if everything
You did was right—I was so blindly
In love with you—I was determined
To be deceived—all your dodging
Plotting, sneaking—and lying which
I put out of my mind—narcissistically
Gloating over—how unimportant it was
For after all—April is the cruelest of
Months—and even my humiliation was
Rare and totally new to me—the way
You would go to your room—in a fit of
Pique—weeping until you fell asleep
I even consulted—witch doctors from
Dahomey—behaving like some foolish
Ham-actor—in some Strindberg play
How you created—jealousy, misery
And rage in your lovers—how you
Could cuckold me—to my face and
I’d believe you—your incredible
Magnetic power—of cajoling me
Your desire to be mastered in bed
Which I could not do—others could

Letter to Chester Kallman

Letter to Chester Kallman

Empty apartment—New York City
I simply couldn’t stand it—any longer
I tried but it was—simply impossible
Things began to slide—friends noticed
Books & newspapers—piled up high
On the floor—dirty dishes constantly
Coming—out of fucked-up nowhere
But worst of all—I couldn’t stand it
Knowing you were—having a good
Time without me—that you were fond
Of me but didn’t—love me anymore
Maybe you never loved me—which
Is nothing new—but at least we
Had the same apartment—even
Listened to Strauss—and Stravinsky
Enjoying each other—me doodling
New York Times—crossword puzzles
While you brought home—sailors
And tricks—who robbed you blind
As well as me too—when you were
Drunk—and goodlooking getting
Anybody you wanted—then you got
bored—spent cold winters down in
Warm Athens alone—but not really
I was the one alone—regretting your
Absence until—it was all I could think
How could I go back—to hustlers after
Knowing you—how could I go back
To Ischia—sun-drenched Parthenopea
Nor Capri—Cult of Pleasure & short
But shapely—dark-haired young men
I wanted a Common Life—a simple
Living-room with you—that’s all
There in Kirchstetten—in the woods

Letter to Chester Kallman

Chester Kallman
Letter to Chester Kallman

“He’s gay; no bludgeonings
of chance can spoil it”
—W.H. Auden,
Letter to Lord Byron

I’m sitting here—rather desultorily
In St. Botolph Bishop Gate—
Waiting for Miss Auden—to come
Trundling by—alone from the pub
After a night—of hustling Ted Hughes

Miss Auden—feels cheated by love
Doubting everything—from Spain to
You my dear—who can blame him
You’re more concerned—with your
Cute Greek soldier boys—than him

About suffering—he’s never wrong
The Old Master—understanding it all
Letting it run its course—the same old
Dog and Pony Show—none of us ageing
Gracefully—at Musée des Beaux Farts

Email Poem

Email Poem
—for W.H. Auden

This is my Email—crossing the Aether
Bringing me news—of my invisible Other

Gossip from Onion—Salon secret notes
What would I do—without such neat folks?

Trashing Obama—puking on Madame Pelosi
It’s great fun—to be so naughty and nosey

So nice to get—the latest news on the Pope
Schwarzenegger’s broke—he’s legalizing dope!

Snorting noisily—Limbaugh, Drudge, O’Reilly
All the Talking Heads—so smarmy & smiley

People online—yearn for news of Apocalypse
But I prefer porno—with black leather & whips

Each morning I wake up—my laptop stirring
The chatty, the catty—the boring, the adoring

The clever, the stupid—the short and the long
Even a quaint epistle—from the Bishop of Hong Kong

Oh friendly Airwaves—so indolent and slow
Be patient with me—my bandwidth so very low

I wish I had Broadband—it’s such a bummer
My dial-up always saying—Sorry Wrong Number

Sometimes I get bored—I’m a Font Queen lately
Verdana is Wunderbar—Times New Roman stately

I can type, I can print—I can spell things wrong
Spell Checker even checks out—my piles & dong!

Email from London, Rome—even Nigeria
Promising Ponzi riches—and Gonorrhea!!!

Email of thanks—but not from my bank man
Email from esteemed—Poet Laureate of Pakistan!

News of Netflix—latest Hollywood flick
Wish I could get rid of—last night’s trick

Email from uncles, cousins, aunts—all dead
Hanging around in my in-box—sadly unread

News from Oxford, Cambridge—even the Queen
A note from Prince Charles—global warming unclean

Elizabeth Bishop—emails me from Key West
Sipping rum & coke—even tho dead verandah-less

Hart Crane—emails me from the Orizaba
His shark’s teeth grin—winking like Ali Baba

Miss Proust as usual—pouting in Paris
In her cork-lined bedroom—so very bare-ass

Walt Whitman—from Timber Creek emails me
Those New Jersey farmboys—“Ain’t for free”

Carol Ann Duffy—she’s such a toughie
Is that her Harley-Davidson—in the alley?

I recently heard news from—San Francisco
The Maltese Falcon’s—up Peter Lorre’s asshole

And Casablanca—I read a recent headline
Mr. Bogart & Mrs. Raines—are doing just fine

Sometimes my email—is full of hanky-panky
But that’s okay—as long as he’s long & lanky

I used to believe—fairy tales had power
But now they’re mostly—rather sweet & sour

Hollywood heart-throbs—like Jude Law
They’re still quite inspiring—without a flaw

Even when Jude plays—a Deep South hustler
His British accent—adds a little class & luster

Bomba the Jungle Boy—sends me Valentines
When I get them—I coyly pull the blinds

Jack Palance—still causes lots of Sudden Fear
Joan Crawford and I—simply love to leer

Fay Wray—and her hunky hubby King Kong
Ensconced in their penthouse—with a bong

Lon Chaney Jr—still emails from Transylvania
What a drag to be a Wolfman—misses California

Bela Lugosi is back—doing a You Tube remake
Playing campy Glen—Ed Wood Jr playing Glenda

How inviting—an email coupon arrives today
A Soylent Green Big Mac—tasty as June Duprez

Yes, email, my dears—it’s a writer’s best friend
Especially email to myself—that I love to send

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Interviewing Sabu

Interviewing Sabu

Let’s go—over it again
This Magic Carpet—of yours
Tell me—how it works, kid
Zipping around—over Baghdad
Who’s this Genii—friend of yours
Three wishes—and all that stuff
C’mon now—tell the truth
Who’s your boss—Conrad Veidt?
And don’t say—it’s June Duprez"

The Snarker’s Alphabet

The Snarker’s Alphabet

“Dante wrote a lot of slush
Because he got an unhealthy crush”
—W.H. Auden, “Give Up Love”
As I Walked Out One Evening

Auden—Pride of your parents and yet their greatest fear—that their son or daughter perchance—might get snarky and snotty—even worse become a slacker poet like Wystan, my dear

Bondage—The other side of Deliverance—Letter to a Wound—snarky Curse of the Cloud of Unknowing—Berlin’s Weimar gift—to the young poet

Crummy—The only support of any writer—the stoic feeling that being a poet is basically snarky—and that Snark is just another name for SSDD

Death—Snarky End Game—Las Vegas denouement—the House that Always Wins—Liberace wheeled out in his wheel-chair—diamonds rings and mink—his wig askew

Ennui—Darling of Death—delightful Ariadne thread—deep into the Maze of Language—then getting lost in there—snarky Labyrinth of Laissez-faire Love

Feigning—The gift of ersatz innocence—snarky verbal playing—the smarmy endless story—schmaltzy jive

Goose—the Mother of us all—Fairy tale Dominatrix—Golden Egg Queen Bee—Leather cape & high-heels—mean whip and strap-on dildo—just for you

Heavy—Heavy date—Blind date in the dark—cute pinhead hustler—stupid but knowingly smart—smart in a kind of snarky way—like Zip and Pip in Freaks

Impolite—Hallmark of snarky intelligence

Joystick—Pivot of power—Jizz-jet of jive

Killer—The other side of love—snarky despair

Lavatories—Repositories of high-class Snark Lit

Manhandled—Fun with the boyz—down on my knees

Nose-Dive—Naught for light-hearted weak sisters

Opulent—Shiny iridescent opulent Mother-of-Pearl

Poet—Peeper through periscope—key-hole voyeur

Queer—Outdated snarky dish—for Metrosexual fag

Really—as in the snarky phrase “Really, my dear?”

Snarkette—Snarke “Lite”

Tea—as in T.S. Eliot—literary teas—reading tea leaves like Madame Sosostris—Talent Scout for The Waste Land—Snarke Queen of the Dead

Umbrage—Softener of snarke—seat of snarke Feign—hard to fake—the snarkier the better

Venus Torso—physique of youth—svelte smooth Schwarzenegger stud—Conan of California

Wireless—Sender of signals—speaker of sorrows—singer of songs—authoress of Aether woes

Xenophobic—fear of snarky Others—especially yours

Youth—Snarky wetdreams of the gods—teenage minions from the Other side—damned if they do—damned if they don’t

Zembla—domain of Pale Fire—Wax-wing desire

The Bloggers

The Bloggers

“It is only within the last
few years that it has been
possible to distinguish the
existence of true growth
among the youngest of
our poets.”
—T.S. Eliot

A queer idea—fatally flawed
A poet to Others—what naiveté
My only excuse—I was enamored
With youth—coffee & laptops
Mornings—at the Book Temple
Barnes & Noble—in the U District
Blogosphere = Revolution!!!

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Letter to a Wound

Letter to a Wound

“Once I carved on
a seat in the park—
We have sat here.
You’d better not.”
—W.H. Auden,
Letter to a Wound

The maid clears—away the tea
Snivelly it seems—isn’t she?
Of course—she knows the truth
So does Gabriel—and Olive
Mrs. Marshall—and the Queen

There are no secrets—about us
You and me—Madame Wound
It’s hard to realize—almost a year?
Since that sailor—in the garden
A foreign youth—from Damascus

Did me in—with bold excitement
But my days of boasting—are over
Just ask the aloof—cool surgeon
Dr. Gangle—tight-lipped washing
His hands after—examining me

Sewing my wound—with sutures
Soiled swabs of cotton—testifying
To the crime—of the century
How it hurts to walk—or sit calmly
Feeling intimate—like I used to

Such shameful pain—much worse
Than hemorrhoids—you and I
Making sure I felt—every moment
For being rude and insincere—to you
Punishing me—for my indulgence

Who’d have guessed—such a young
Immature slightly built—sailorboy
Possessed such a huge—pile-driver?
I remember you telling me—sincerely
“You’d better not—it’s much too big!!!”

After all up-close—you had a much
Better view of his—ungodly Godzilla!!!
How you made me cry—afterwards
Confessing my sins—so selfishly and
Shamelessly—now in the dark

Making me pay dearly—disgustingly
So here we are—a whole year later
Knowing you—has made me humble
Knowing we’ll never part—just burn
Obsessed now—with eternal return

Mortally wounded—still bleeding
Nervously waiting—for your next
Sharp jabbing of pain—down there
Where I used to have—so much fun
But I’m calm—I’ll just have to wait

Good night—God bless you, my dear

As I Walked Out One Evening

As I Walked Out One Evening

“And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead”
—W.H. Auden

As I walked out—one evening
Strolling along—Capitol Hill
The gay crowds on—Broadway
Suddenly grew—very still

And down by—the Rubber Tree
I heard a young lover—weeping
At night—in Volunteer Park
Where the ghosts—were sleeping

“I love you, dear—I love you so
Till Cascades—and Olympics meet
And the moon—slips by overhead
And the salmon—sing in the street”

“I love you—like the pale orchids
There under glass—in the moonlight
Making love in—The Conservatory
Both of us—higher than a kite”

“Let the years—come and go
In your arms—time seems to stop
As long as we—have each other
How I love to—make you pop”

But Seward’s statue—guarding
The art deco—Art Museum nearby
Frowned—and said happiness
Can’t last—it’s all a sad lie

I plunged my hands—down deep
Into the reservoir—gazing out over
Lake Union—from the giant Tower
The changing lights—of Sandover

Forty years later—here I am
Still loving my—gone crooked lover
With all my gone—crooked heart
All the Boss Cupids—taking cover

Strolling tonight—along Broadway
Once upon a time—I sighed in bed
But now—a crack in the sidewalk
Opens up a staircase—to the dead

As Well as Can Be Expected

As Well as Can Be Expected

“For something fulfilled
this hour—loved or endured”
—W.H. Auden,
“As Well as Can Be Expected”
The Collected Poetry

Wiser today—but not really
Walking alone—down by the lake
The stream—sliding thru gravel

The delta silt—and mud
Coming down—from across the
Street—thru the viaduct

Down from—Dead Horse Canyon
Up where old cedars—still stand
And Douglas firs—brood

Thirty years later—here I am
Sitting on a sofa—with my cat
Still coming home—am I there?

How many dawns—sleepless
Front yard—kitty-kat graveyard
Loved—having been loved

What more—can I ask for
Here is where—time stopped
And where—I once endured

Rough Trade

Rough Trade

“By nature monandrous,
he finds it hard to desert
a piece of trade”
—W.H. Auden,
“Profile,” Collected Poems

I thank God daily—
That I was born and bred
American Hippie

A boyhood full of dope—
And good things to smoke
Why not be a Slacker?

Gluttony and sloth—
So much better than
Ponzi Lust and Greed

Look at all the maudlin—
Workers broker than
Broke can be

Stock Market scams—
Bailed out day-dreams
All the bankers bankrupt

Give me Patchouli—
Paisley sheets to dream
I’m just a Sixties Sissy

No use to stomp Feet—
I’ve wept sometimes
But never slit my wrist

Vain? Not really, but—
A mere joint or puff of
Hookah—sometimes works

Praise? Unimportant—
Look what happened to
Detroit—and the Big Three

Life is a precious gift—
No other presents so fine
As one’s good health

I envy nobody who—
Reads the NYTimes or
Watches FOX-News

I prefer Firbank’s novels—
To what’s happening
Daily in the WSJ

In the Big City—
Funny how all the street
Lights—turn off for me

They say that I’m—
Obsessive because I
Still wear Long Hair

I try to be Neat—
Wearing it tidily
In a nice Pony-Tail

Why does my Blog—
Laptop and cell-phone
Make me feel so horny?

My Guardian Angel—
Never tells me
What to do next

Conscious of good luck—
I know when to quit
Las Vegas early

Blogosphere Readers—
Are we really the only
Happy ones—in the Aether?

On getting high—
Arnold wants to tax us
Now that California is broke

Anxiety dreams are cool—
Just when I give up hope
I ejaculate like a fool

Laughing-gas fits—
Make me feel so high
See all the Capitol “F’s”?

Why, when alone—
Ever since way back when
The Urge—to Write?

I’ve never seen God—
But a couple of times

He’s fucked me good

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Answering Back

Answering Back
—for Carol Ann Duffy

“For this anthology, Answering Back, I invited the best of our contemporary poets to select a poem, or poem in translation, from a poet from the past which they would like to answer in some way. Around fifty of the poets responded. There is quite a bit of exchanging of glances across the crowded centuries.”—Carol Ann Duffy, Foreword, Answering Back: Living poets reply to the poetry of the past

Naturally I was—somewhat disappointed
Finding that all of—Duffy’s poetry books
Were gone—swept from the shelves of
The book temples—Barnes & Noble and
Borders—even Open Books in Seattle
As well as holds—on all her books at
The Seattle Public Library—oh dear me.

Luckily I came across—this anthology
Edited by Carol Ann Duffy—a rare find
Entitled Answering Back—Picador 2007
Full of echoing poets—and poems
A Calling Forth—an Answering Back
Poets now—writing backwards in time
Poets past—echoing back to them

Finding this exercise—rather intriguing
Pretending I was—one of the best of
Our contemporary poets—naturally I
Chose Auden’s—“The Platonic Blow”
Well-known as—“A Day for a Lay”
As my humble—pseudo-submission
For this fascinating—Mission Impossible

Published the first time—by Ed Sanders
As “The Platonic Blow”—way back when in
Fuck You/A Magazine of the Arts (1965)
Later as “A Gobble Poem”—in London by
Fuck Books Unlimited (1967)—later in
Amsterdam by Suck (1969)—then by Avant
Garde (1970)—as well as Gay Sunshine
Journal (1974)—and Gay Roots (1991)

Kenneth Rexroth—is quoted as saying:
“Wystan told me—that he had learned
more about writing poetry—from writing
“The Platonic Blow”—than anything he
had ever written”—and Auden did a lot
of writing—he was a man who always
felt compelled to write—and write

“Unless I write something—anything
Good, indifferent—or trashy everyday
I feel ill—to me the only good reason
For writing—is to try to organize my
Scattered thoughts—of living into a
Whole—to relate everything to
Every thing else—to pay the price”

A Day for a Lay

A Day for a Lay

“After the off—
horse riderless
and jockey tossed”
—Carol Ann Duffy
“Kipling,” Answering Back:
Living Poets Reply to the
Poetry of the Past

Well, my dear—it was quite a day
A nice day for a lay—a nice Spring day
A day full of that—exquisite skanky smell
Like a locker-room—full of young male decay
There’s nothing quite like it—coming back
From lunch, turning the corner—and then
On the steps—there he was standing alone
Like some lost Angel—from the Acropolis

Naturally I glanced—at how it enhanced
The day—how his white T-shirt outlined
What was to come—the story of his forceful
Torso and snug bluejeans—divulging what
The day already knew—it was a perfect day
For a lay—and as I got closer I heard the
Lovely Spring day say—Look, look my dear!!!
Look at his huge inviting crotch—that bulge!!!

Naturally days like that—days that are days
Days that are days for lays—so naturally gay
Make me weak in the knees—so that by the
Time I got to the stoop—I was stooping too
Bent over with weak knees—I felt sick but
Still had the strength to—ask him coyly
“Would you like to—come up to my room?”
And then with that husky—sultry voice that

Young men sometimes have—“Okay…”
Our eyes meeting—in that familiar way
That stays for awhile—while each ponders
The other over a beer—letting the day be
The kind of day—that’s good for a lay
Telling me his story—living next door
Half Polish, half Irish—the youngest son
From Kansas—unemployed, eighteen…

Putting down his beer—stretching
Yawning like a cat—spreading his legs
The afternoon light—of that day of days
Striking just right—the Greek torso of the
Gods—flexing his biceps just for me to see
If I was indeed in need of him—as much
As he needed me—his smile drooping to
A sullen pout—I couldn’t believe my luck

What a day I said to myself—running my
Hand up the inside of his leg—his reply was
To tremble in that tender male way—melting
My heart by letting me know—all that warm
Flesh was waiting for me—a nice day they say
For an indecent lay—unzipping his bulging
Fly bent and bulging—like a boa constrictor
Slipping down his—tight much to tight shorts

I groped—I gasped at the largeness there
The slit at least an inch long—and breathing
Like it was waiting—to be strangled to death
At last at last it said—a decent cocksucker now!!!
Responding to my fondling—in a desperate way
As if he hadn’t got off—for much too long and
Raising his hips off the sofa—sliding down his
Bluejeans, shorts—revealing his sultry meat

Uncut and veiny—the masterpiece of the day
Bent to the side after—years of masturbation
All I could think about—was the simply terrible
Waste of all that cumly action—how exquisitely
Tragic the dimensions of my grief—knowing that
His adolescence was so—spent and wasted in
Self-abuse—all those forever lost and nostalgic

Nocturnal emissions—and jack-off sessions!!!

He responded—by closing his eyes and leaning
Back holding my head—then gently pulling my
Ears down on him—his forefingers worming their
Way deeper and deeper—down into my zingy
Ringing ear-drums—deeper and deeper down
Into my throbbing meaty medulla—loving the
Way he manhandled my head—giving head on
That day—that perfect day oh dear what a lay!!!

Those tiny little foreskin wrinkles—dedicated
To the finest silky succulence—covered with
Capillaries—of the most delicate persuasions
With singular powers of extension—stirring
Like a snake in a basket—charmed by the
Flute of a Snake Charmer—sliding it back
Only to almost faint—once revealed jerking
Suddenly to life—nearly ten inches long!!!

How soundlessly—it distended so quickly
With a life of its own—so elegant and manly
Thick as my wrist at the base—of the temple
Matted tightly with kinky—black tight curls
Virtually a Bermuda Triangle—of lost ships
Sailors and squadrons—of lost aircraft way
Off course—hopelessly “beyond the beyond”
Beyond the point of No Return—my dears

Down on one’s knees—the world’s different
Things are more serious—down there where
Knobs are knowingly—full of waiting gobs
Where a day for a lay—really gets serious
The more serious it got—the sicker I felt
Deep in my stomach—lucky to be on my
Knees because they were—so fucking weak
So weak I was constantly—almost fainting

But things got worse—when he stood up
Pulling his T-shirt over his head—slipping
Down his pants—Abercrombie & Fitch shorts
Standing there barefoot—and bare-assed
Arrogantly letting me see—what he had to
Share with me—that lovely afternoon day
That day, honey—oh that glorious day
When each heartbeat—of his became mine

Posing there just for me—I couldn’t help it
I could only stare up at him—how did I rate
Such a moody Boss Cupid—winging his way
Into my Valentine Day—the Valentino Way
And when a long sticky—droop of tangy goo
Oozed out of his dickhead—the Slit of his
Pensive penis—viscous goo of the gods
Slot of the spout—luxuriant hot youth

His lair of pubic hair—bulging bellybutton
Tangle of curls and whirls—how uncouth
Running straight up—his hard stomach
From the root of his tree—and testicles
To his naughty navel—from whence his
Flat belly flowed—rippling washboard of
Shameless handsome—Herculean strength
Twisting his lips—as I went down on him

No time for kissing—my lips entwined with
The shock of his cock—my wrap-around
Tongue squeezing—and strangling its prey
Like some all-knowing—awful Anaconda
Feeling him up—the ache of his firm flesh
My hands squeezing his—tight sirloin steak
Hips—his flexed meaty lamb-chops so fine

Then it was his time—to feel weak-knees
Slipping down onto the sofa—letting my
Tongue rim him—in ways insufferably new
And yet old as the hills—my déjà vu tip
Wiggling its way—up his tight asshole
As if he’d never—been rimmed before
His wide shoulders—bent forward and
His jaw slack—getting into depravity

Mad to be had—his tight lips worth a
Million kisses—but there wasn’t time for
Dilly-dallying around—his tits erect and
Worthy of Adonis—nipples athletic and
Pointed pink—how masculine his armpits
Exuding the male secret—sniffing whiffing
Those pheromones—that drive queers mad
The more mad the better—getting him off

A day for a lay—a century of crotch play
What could be more pretty—and imploring
Than to do a little—nasty male exploring
“Take it” he said—burying his face so very
Indiscreetly in the pillow—going spastic
Like a tightly wound-up—thick rubber band
Letting me taste him—oozing spurting oozing
Some more—ancient Adonis ambrosia joy

Blood-jet of Ariel—Jizz-jet of the gods
Spunk-jet of Narcissus—Sperm-jet of Caliban
Corkscrew-jet—Lady Chatterley’s delight
Gamekeeper-jet—D.H. Lawrence nude
Jetcity-jet—Pugetopolis mon amour
Losing everything—at the racetrack today
What a day for a lay—going all the way

Writing back—coming forward again

Monday, May 18, 2009

Letter to W.H. Auden

Letter to W.H. Auden

“In its opening stanzas, “Letter to Lord Byron” presents itself as a confession: a guilty revelation of the personal. But Like Don Juan, Auden’s epistle offers many other things: news of the day, poets’ shoptalk, pottered history, gossip and innuendo.”—Richard Bozorth, “Politics and Authority in the 1930s,” Auden’s Games of Knowledge: Poetry and the Meanings of Homosexuality

The Great Utopia—Snakepit USA
The Withered State—Late Capitalism drag
The Dream of being—both sexes at once
Or is it some kind of—Tiresias Curse?
The Two-Party System—dog and pony show
Two wings—of the same moneyed class
Smoke and Mirrors—voting machine sham
The Teleportation—of Roman Precincts
Descending from the sky—onto the Beltway
The same temples—the same Egyptian pylons
Sad old domes—celestial county courthouses
Everything a perfect fit—with a nice little click
But best of all—the same old sad senators
Playing the same old—squirrelly SPQR game
The lonely old whores—of the Neocon Right

Letter to W.H. Auden

Letter to W.H. Auden

“It is also an act of identification with Byron—another homage to a queer uncle—and the meanings of this gesture involve Auden’s reception as a leftist and homosexual writer of the 1930s.”—Richard Bozorth, “Politics and Authority in the 1930s,” Auden’s Games of Knowledge: Poetry and the Meanings of Homosexuality

Lord Byron—wish you were here, my dear
What would you do—I wonder today
If you were me—and I were you?
Conceivably you—might set me free
Without all this bondage—so cartoonish
Britannia’s lost empire—gone cash & power
How you liked to be—the center of attention
The gay Prince Charming—of the Nation
Taming the Dragon—down in Greece
But those days are over—a fairy story
Today Princes—are anonymous hacks
Modern politics today—more gory than glory
TPTB want their heroes—to be easy-going slackers
Newt, Boner, Mitch the Bitch—Tom DeLay
Dick Armey, Pelosa—what can I say?
Rome as usual—Snakepit of incestuous creeps
The Warren Commission—the 9-11 Commission
The Silberman-Robb Commission—all of them
The usual gangbang—of hacks and fixers
Darth Cheney—down in his Berlin bunker
Each dying force of history—a scaly story
Pax Romana—aristocrats v. plebeians
Two right wings—of the same crummy Party
All of it just window-dressing—then the Boot

Letter to W.H. Auden

Letter to W.H. Auden

“The virtues he ascribes to Byron are the traits that some critics implied had compromised Auden as a political poet: immaturity, inauthenticity, and superficiality. “Letter to Lord Byron,” however, transvalues such terms to critique the coercive dangers of political art.”—Richard Bozorth, “Politics and Authority in the 1930s,” Auden’s Games of Knowledge: Poetry and the Meanings of Homosexuality

Milton beheld—the first Ponzi scheme
The English Throne—then Papal chair
Bankers & landlords—clerks and Popes
All of them uber-successful—for awhile
When men get greedy—they want it all
Lovely Wall Street greed—and corruption
On Dec 11, 2008—Bernie Madoff confessed
His $65 billion—was just one fucking Big Lie
Ponzi schemes—they say are like chain letters
They don’t last long—but scams never cease
Globalization helps—access to money all over
The world—aided by nefarious technology
Willful ignorance—is the name of the game
Investors never asked Madoff—how it worked
Deregulation—made greed kosher and okay
Many lost everything—funneling to Ponzi Prick
It was the largest—stock fraud in history
Suicides make Plath’s—look rather sanitary
Rich people—don’t like to lose everything
Laissez-faire capitalism—the bedrock of the
Great American economic—Success Story
Is deader than a doornail—it will be tarnished
For several generations—look at the ruins

Letter to W.H. Auden

Letter to W.H. Auden

“This critique is then enacted by the parabolic autobiography Auden recounts—a story shot through with sexual suggestion, whose larger meaning requires the reader to weigh this poet’s eccentricity and typicality.”—Richard Bozorth, “Politics and Authority in the 1930s,” Auden’s Games of Knowledge: Poetry and the Meanings of Homosexuality

Forgive me for inflicting—all this on you
It’s easy to forget—you’ve been thru it too
Many have lost faith—in choice and thought
Many now endorse—The Hobbes Report
“The life of man is—nasty, brutish, short”
Dictators rise up again—from their bunkers
Promising to set up—Law and Order
It was Athens—who murdered Socrates
It was America—who murdered Harding
Generals and corporations—slavering at
The chance to—stir-up war everywhere
To make an easy buck—with a little luck
The doughy masses—bourgeois rubes
The peanut-crunchers—couch-potatoes
Bored asleep even now—as Rome burns
And every man—in every generation
Tossing in his anxious—dilemma bed
Cries in the shadows—to the noble dead
But the dead are deaf—they don’t care
No letters home—from where they are
Urgent, vexed—but still quite inaudible
Perhaps I’ll try—Madame Sosostris maybe
You know—that world-famous clairvoyante
She’s often the guest—on The Oprah Show
She’s better than Ouija—entrails of owls
More imaginative than—ratty tea leaves
Predicting the future—better than WSJ

Letter to W.H. Auden

Letter to W.H. Auden

“Auden defends Byron by asserting the value of light verse and by using him to authorize the coexistence of genuine political concerns with comic art.”—Richard Bozorth, “Politics and Authority in the 1930s,” Auden’s Games of Knowledge: Poetry and the Meanings of Homosexuality

I see your face—on every channel
The Drudge Report—and every panel
FOX-News—interviews you regularly
Wintering in Cadiz—caught at the wheel
Whizzing around—in your maroon Mercedes
Lord Byron—the Don Juan of the jet-setters
Dining with Miss Capote—in Manhattan
Highbrow circles—at ivy-league Princeton
Licking your asshole—if you let them
Your Picasso portrait—better than Stein’s
Showing you arm-wrestling—with Toklas
Sharing tea, marmalade—and a hookah
With Miss Proust—and Miss Bowles there
Vacationing in Marrakech—then touring
The Acropolis—with Chester and some of
Those Greek white-trash—soldiers of his
How I’ll love it much better—when he gets
Old and loses his looks—when the tiresome
Kissing is done—and we can be comfy again
Doing crossword puzzles—after dinner in
Our little Austrian getaway—all mine

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Letter to W.H. Auden

Letter to W.H. Auden

Well, my dear—it appears the time has come
A Diesel Dyke—our new Poet Laureate!!!
Even Lord Alfred—and Chester agree
Finally a Poet—who shits not soils
A Muse who pisses—not passes water
A Lady Lazarus—who fucks and enjoys it
Rather than simply submit—to rude intercourse
Sweet Jaysus weeps—Miss Gee is dead
Let the game of—Heaven and Hell begin

Letter to W.H. Auden

Letter to W.H. Auden

I hope this reaches you—in Athens, my dear
Chester tells me—Olympus is HOT!!!
While Rome on the Potomac—is burning
The Acropolis is—so cool and inviting
I hear the Ganymedes—are very appealing
Their marvelous cries—Boss Cupids weeping
Shakespeare lounging—with Madame Sycorax
Ariel and Caliban—dancing the Tango
Shelley playing Bridge—with Dante, Keats
And Miss Housman—forgetting all scholarship
Even Ted Hughes—seems to enjoy it
Thousands of lashes—with a wet noodle
Sylvia in black leather—Divine Dominatrix
Fresh from her—lovely Abu Ghraib visitation
She be into Electro-Love—zapping Baghdad
Getting even for men—frying Ethel Rosenberg
She be into SM Love—just like Miss Cheney!!!

Saturday, May 16, 2009

W.H. Auden

Letter to W.H. Auden

Well, my dear—ever since the British Isles
Went National Socialist—like Europe
I don’t feel so bad—about having piles
Nor do I feel like—such an awful perp
When I think of the Queen—I want to burp
So Englishmen must be—Neocon now
Leave it to the fascists—to know how

Christopher & his kind—like you & me
We’re so lucky—to have escaped in time
Just in time for—toast, marmalade & tea
Impressed by—Miss Churchill’s exquisite slime
Her shrill indignation—fleeing so fine
We saw her in Church—fairly recently
Confessing, dear—rather indecently

I tend to agree—with Madame Housman
To say in print—what’s so unprintable
The flawed Roman lyrics—that they should ban
The way Pope Pius—so inscrutable
Allowed young priests—to be so screwable
Christopher and I—noticed it right away
How the cute ones—were rather a good lay

Far be it for me, my dear—to confess
But I heard it—through the grapevine in Rome
Vivien is back—she wants more not less
Haunting the shadows—of St. Peter’s Dome
For a handsome young—virgin priestly bone
Telling Lotte Lenya—she’s just a mess
Please—Contessa Terribili-Gonzales!!!"

Friday, May 15, 2009

W.H. Auden

Letter to W.H. Auden

Excuse me, my dear—these lurid details
But surely being—a famous writer
You’ve got plenty—of fan-mail from the jails
You see I’m a lover—not fighter
It’s not as simple—as a one-nighter
I try to please—but you know how it is
The Tower of London—isn’t show biz

I’m sure you get—lots of white trash letters
From total strangers—who need some money
Lots of greedy hustlers—and go-getters
But I’m not into—seduction, honey
Even though that sounds—rather funny
I bet some guyz—send you nude photographs
But cheap thrills like that—only get cheap laughs

I’m more into—poetry like you are
I really like your—sardonic “Miss Gee”
I sing it every night—with my guitar
Your gay limericks—make me feel so free
They make me—want to go across the sea
To worship the—Bishop of Hong Kong’s dong
It’s rumored to be—at least a foot long

Many post work—on lavatory walls
William Logan—New York Times critic
Engraves his wants—in sullen still stalls
His reviews are always—so acidic
The way he treated Hart Crane—pathetic
Dishing Brooklyn Bridge—not str8ght enough
Chasing sailors—like a powder puff

Queen Bee

Queen Bee
—for Ted Hughes

“the slither of an eel”
—Carol Ann Duffy,
“Stuffed,” The World’s Wife

I put a couple—of hickies
On his jowls—to honor
Assia Wevill—tiny delicate
Tattoo reminders—of what
A Spiv—Ted Hughes was

Then like an—undertaker
For the—Rich and Famous
From the—Land of the Dead
I sewed on—a grin to match
His crummy—Crocodile tears

I stitched—a Weaselly smirk
On his thin cruel—Yorkshire lips
I added some—Penguin Boy
Flippers—to his Circus Act
To make him—more famous

I gave him—the pierced heart
That only a—fake Valentino knows
To help him along—his ambitious
Path to be—the Queen’s Kept Man
Mytholmroyd Meathead—of the Moors

Devil Girl of Mars

Devil Girl of Mars

“At night I fart
a Guinness”
—Carol Ann Duffy

At night—She parts
Her lovely—pale white hips
And farts—a Heineken
In my face—thru Lace

Black lace—turns me on
Her Fart—so silent stealthy
The sexiest thing—on Earth
My Devil Girl—from Mars

Black leather boots—sharp
High heels—jabbing me
Her wrap-around—Legs
So Otherworldly—Fine

Her Ming—the Merciless
Tight helmet—so Fifties
British Sci-Fi chic—Love
That raygun—dildo of hers

Some prefer—Zsa Zsa
Queen—of Outer Space
But Mars—needs men
Flying Saucers—Take me!!!

Hook me up—quick please
Like young—Don Johnson’s
Movie—A Boy and His Dog
And drain me dry—on Mars!!!

Olga Baclanova

Olga Baclanova

“This is the—
word tightrope”
—Carol Ann Duffy,
“Talent,” The World’s Wife

Scene 1

Haughty—Olga Baclanova
Trapeze Queen—Circus of Freaks
High above—the peanut crunchers
The gawking mob—dumb rubes

She tip-toes—the fine line
The word tightrope—is her by-line
Swinging over—the Three Rings
Mooning the—moon high above

But it’s her—tiny ballerina toes
And lovely—long pale ankles
That turn—Tod Browning on
Groveling in her—plush trailer

Pearls before swine—Oink!!!
You should see—those early
Silent movies—with Lon Chaney
Talk about—Carnival tres chic

Talk about—A Season in Hell
Variety Photoplays—Freaks!!!
Can a beautiful—full grown woman
Truly love a—MIDGET?!?

Scene 2

Those after-hours—parties
Beneath the—dark sideshow
Pitched-tent—now imagine
Todd Browning—inching his way

Down on his—hands and knees
In the sawdust—crawling slowly
Between our thoughts—and Olga’s
Lovely legs—those divine Ankles!!!

We hold our breath—it’s not every
Night one gets to see—the Director
Of Hollywood Babylon’s—best films
Charmed by Circe—into a Swine

Dracula—Virgin of Stamboul
Dangerous Flirt—Unholy Three
Devil-Doll—Mark of the Vampire
Wicked Darling—Brazen Beauty

Scene 3
There’s no word net—to catch it
Only the bulging eyes—of Freaks
Johnny Eck—the Half Boy with a
Knife between his teeth—pistol

Cleopatra—and Hercules
Tied up—and thrown into a trunk
With Zip and Pip—doing the Tango
Such a lovely—pair of Pinheads

Olga the Bearded Lady—so shy
Playing the zither—straight from
The sewers of Vienna—plus
Madame Tetrallini—The Tart

While Joe-Josephine—dances
Her usual—Half-Man Half-Woman
Hoochie-Coochie—striptease act
A real crowd-pleaser—for sure

With the Armless Girl—making out
With Prince Randian—the Stump
The Living Torso—smoking his cigar
Blowing circles—up Bird Girl’s ass

We want him to fail—don't you?
I guessed as much—but Todd teeters
Succeeds—the word applause
Written all over—his smiling face

Brazen Beauty (1918)
Wicked Darling (1919)
The Virgin of Stamboul (1920)
The Dangerous Flirt (1924)
Dracula (1931)
Mark of the Vampire (1935)
The Devil-Doll (1936)
The Unholy Three (1925)