“LET us go then, you and I,

when the evening is spread out against the sky

like a patient etherized upon a table”

—T. S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

I go out into the Snarksville evening—the inevitable loss of light, the coming night. Karmic and snarky retardo City of the Dead… The mantle worn soon passes on—to other Drag queens unstoppable. Each enraged and cursing like me— shaking my Knobby-tongued floppy myopic genitals. As the bell tolls—with the inevitable loss of me. My hallucinating obsequious prosodic mind—wasted sad windy egomaniacal smarmy songs in my ears… Droopy albino Snake Road—diverging into the freaky slug asshole sunset.

Hermaphroditic easy poet—with my foot in the door once… Into the maniacal afterglow now. Hairball oral delightful Snarksville waits for me—a cauldron of unholy Loves in the seething twilight. He’s done now—say the circus carnies… Labyrinthine screams—I’ve heard them. My secret cranium—Liquefied tramps turning the key. As I meander—down thru dark back-alleys and back streets. When I go down on—slutty stony smarmy Snarksville? Meandering—thru her difficulties & tacky allusions… Her not so gentle snarky Night…

"Mrs. Eliot put on her hat.

This had stitched on it the

rather garish purple and

green dust-jacket of Eliot’s

play, with the letter-print—


very prominent round the rim.”

—Stephen Spender, T. S. Eliot

Love mon amour… Vivienne has hers—while I have mine… Young dirty sailors… Down by the Thames… I’d love to murder her… but I don’t want to lose my British citizenship. Living death makes—Modern marriage spiritually an Ash Wednesday—every Dead day and night… Between man & wife—a shadow sometimes falls… That other One who she once was—suddenly getting even. Knowing I wasn’t in love with her anymore—but with Sailors & fishermen instead… unpleasant divorces—full of guilt and remorse. Plaguing Snarksville and the Cathedral... She likes walking down the Street—persistently being rude for no reason at all… With her garish hat—all purple and greenish. It was meant to humiliate me—before strangers… It’s how she slowly gets her revenge—one snarky slice at a time then another… Spender tells this story—about my wife leaving the Hairdresser once… Complaining about me… How people stared—as if she were Sylvia Plath. And me Big Daddy—so mean & cruel. And what really happened—poetry can’t tell. Love on the wings of a Dove—sometimes ends up inside an oven… Sometimes love dies—a thousand cuts at a time… Tiresome ménage a trois marriages—they can be very difficult... Very down and dirty but—they also produce Poetry… Everybody knows about—Sylvia Plath & Ted Hughes… The same with me and Vivien…

“The seas of experience

So immediate and steep

Are suddenly still…”

—T. S. Eliot,


A literary renaissance envisioned—by Miss Matthiessen from Miss Whitman to the ‘50s… The best minds, my dear, of how many generations—squelched and smothered by the fucking Waste Land… Personal wastelands—the kind we’ve all lived thru. Day-to-day & hour-to-hour. Slinking our way thru life… Matthiessen and I—measuring out our lives with coffee spoons. F. O. Matthiessen jumping to his Death—from the twelfth-story window of Boston Hotel Manger… It was April Fools Day 1950—the shock waves reverberated. All the way from Harvard—to the haughty HUAC Beltway… So much for the Renaisance—America moving, then standing still…. But here’s another weird thing—the “still moment” isn’t just a horizontal motion-motionless thing. It works vertically too—in fact maybe a vertical falling. Instead of being still—more veridical and frightening is the other way. Like 12 floors down… It gets rather Dante-esque fast—but then that’s another story… F. O. pasted me up—on the way going down. Something clicked inside me. It felt like my train was moving—instead of the one next to me. I knew it was an illusion—but still it was so real I did a double-take. There I was sitting still—yet I was moving at the same time. The “still moment”—a mere illusion. It was a trip back to Snarksville—after a brief stay in New York City… My train was almost ready to leave—while this other train was moving. The illusion was so strange and deep—so immediate and steep. Suddenly moving—suddenly still. You may say what you will—but I was terrified. There’s nothing else quite like it—sitting in a train compartment alone. Moving somewhere—moving nowhere fast. Sometimes I have the same weird sensation—gliding along the city streets at night. The garrulous waves of Snarksville life—shrinking back and dividing. A thousand incidents—vexed and debated. This is the hour—for which I’ve waited. This is the ultimate snarky hour—when I’m going nowhere fast…

Snark compresses descriptions—

so tightly that you have to give them

time to unfold in your mind…”

—Waldo Lydecker

What I mean by that is—the prime importance is snarky facts. A realistic presentation—of carefully observed tacky details. (It shouldn’t be forgotten that the title of my first book was “Addison Dewitt and the Copacabana School of Dramatic Art,” Sunset Boulevard Press). I stick close to Dewitt’s conviction—“We all come into this world with our little egos equipped with individual horns. If we don't blow them, who else will?” I wake up each snarky morning saying to myself—what Waldo Lydecker says in his bathtub: “How singularly innocent I look this morning.” Lydecker will always be the Queen of Snark—as far as I’m concerned. Like him, I'm not kind—I'm vicious. It's the secret of my success and snarky charm. Snark, my dear, is an Artform. Snark is being born in a extremely rustic community like Snarksville—where good manners are unknown and everybody suffers from the same common carney delusion. The delusion that the world is full of rubes—and only carney intelligentsia know how to get ahead. In business, religion, politics—and other forms of uncivilized smarmy conduct. To know that is one thing—to write about it is another.I’m quick to seize upon anything that improves my dreary mind or elegant appearance. Snarksville has the necessary innate in-breeding—to achieve in my judgment what tacky taste and snarky behavior is really all about. I selected Lola—to be my Laura. I got a better hairdresser for her. I taught her what clothes were more becoming to her. Through me, Lola met everyone—the rich and famous and the infamous too. Her youth and beauty, her poise and charm of manner—captivated everybody in Snarksville. She had warmth, vitality. Lola had authentic magnetism—especially with wooden nickels. Wherever we went, she stood out. Men admired her; women envied her. She became as famous as my walking stick—and my white carnation. The great aim is being accurate, precise and definite. The World of Snark—demands nothing less, nothing more. I’m always preoccupied in finding the exact “snarky” word. I’m preoccupied with the sharp visual discoveries of modern snarky photography—from masters like Warhol to Mapplethorpe. Mapplethorpe’s “Man in Polyester Suit,” for example—what could be more absolutely exquisitely “snarky” as that? Can you imagine being in a Manhattan elevator—and having that happen to you? Mapplethorpe compresses his tackiness so tightly—that you have to give it time to unfold in your mind… My gawd, what a young snarky animal—is it really AWOL? The simple impression of snarky details… That brief gesture that perceives and reveals Snarkdom—in all its snarky acutely revelatory details … Miss James, Miss Eliot & Miss Hawthorne—concerned with catching its finely-tuned rude inarticulate gestures. Auden sensing it’s action—so deeply subtextual… The value of Big Apple snark—beyond mere Prufrockian rankling. Pealing that Peach nicely—the ability to see Life beyond the camp Lie… The value of the subtle snarky sympathy—sympathy with simple Leaves of Grass male adhesiveness. Like Walt Whitman when lilacs last in the dooryard bloomed—going down on Peter Doyle… The value of Snarkification—seeing all lifestyles as somewhat smarmy and tacky. It does wonders—for one’s ego. It’s better than Miss Lonelyhearts—better than Our Lady of Guadalupe. Better than Miss Havisham lesbian solitude and tenderness—like Emily Dickinson there in her Amherst conservatory… The value of snarky specificity—comes out in concrete images like Dante in the Sixteenth Canto of the Purgatorio… Those running stags—around my silver tea tray… Confounding the actual—with the fanciful… Madame Sosostris’ playing-cards—all those kings and queens. And her son Sebastian Sosostris—the cute nefarious Jack in her loaded deck.

“e io senti' chiavar l'uscio di sotto

a l'orribile torre”—

Dante, Inferno, XXXIII, 46

Such snarky card games people play, my dears… And the fairies—what will the smarmy servants say… And what do the fairies actually do? That’s the American moment—the dramatic correlate between us and snarky consumerism… The gay sensibility—going beyond merely Poetic misconception of Miss Pound’s ho-hum snarky Cantos… Beyond Miss Swinburne—and Miss Spencer to Madame Donne… Beyond Shakespeare and those lovely snarky Dark Lady sonnets… The Making of snarky sensibility—what could be more trivial and yet more important? Surely more significant than a bunch of accidental inauthentic and tragic queens… Fuck facile idealization—make that Abercrombie & Fitch butt-crack real, baby… Think in terms of snarky suburban images—that Fuse emotion and thought at the local mall… Describing real snarky action, my dears—like Charles Baudelaire and Rémy de Gourmont would do. Like Rimbaud stretching out—nude in some Snarksville motel. Such a voluptuously cute Ardennais Snarkette—a Frenchy Princess Volupine herself. Arthur’s snarky blue-veined philistine prick—cute as Jean Verdenal my Hyacinth Boy. Standing nude at the top of the Staircase—with that fugitive resentment in look in his Sebastianesque blue eyes… How contemporaneous the baroque décor—Verlaine so despicable in the Snarksville Holiday Inn.

It’s truly snarky Surrealist hell—seeing Rimbaud that adolescent pushy youth. Flaunt his body so lewdly—even worse than a A&F catalog. Look at him up there in the window of the Snarksville shopping mall—such Brazen snarky bare-ass youngmale beauty. Plump down there like a fig’s plump fruit—downwind the smell of Dante’s Dramatic stairway down to hell… What could be more snarky—than that smirky hint of divine male Innocence and mystery. Hinted at so alluringly—suggested by sullen adolescent Abercrombiesque anatomies? Cute teenage Saint Sebastian—for sale in the mall? Up there on the walls—sacrificed like what’s his name. What could be more voyeuristically ogling—than such Beauty revealed to tacky lurking queer minions moiling in the ugly malls? This is precisely the snarky image—I’m suggesting and discussing my dears. Incorporating the crepuscular Spirit of American capitalism—like selling cars like Marilyn Monroe’s big tits. Those stylish garish fins so Shamelessly snarky back then—driving around in my skanky Fifties pink Cadillac… Stylishly snarky and immediately greedy—doing the trick rather neatly… Be specific and snarky—go to the Snarksville Costco or your local tacky Mall… Wallow in the purgatorial Elegance of the bourgeois Moment—let your Enchantment with Evil be suggestive and rude. Let the sensuous human Zit on the Zeitgeist’s big Ass— seduce you into costly slutty smarm, beauty & luxury…

Don’t be vague about it—be Vogue, my dear. Pick something nice—like that Huge leering Abercrombie boy with his butt-crack hanging out… The finely-defined definiteness of Suburban Snark—there’s nothing quite like it if you see it my way. Matched with the way all decent decadents see it—will you pay for it? Of course you will—only Snark can produce the indefiniteness of suggestion necessary… Why just the other day—the cops in Virginia confiscated tons of those butt-crack poster Images from all the local Abercrombie & Fitch stores… That’s how snarky suggestion works—the very hint of Obsession breeding bonds of Smarm everywhere. Such an exquisite terrifying escapelessness… After all, my dears—what could be more snarky? Than the flaunted butt-crack—of a model male beauty? A bunch of them on the hoof—like a herd of wild ponies? Totally real and beautiful—with all the class & style of gone Wild West Abercrombiesque…

There’s a word inside words—swaddled in smarmy darkness & tacky Depraved juvescense. It’s the Year of the Young Rat isn’t it—surely I must ask Madame de Tornquist for advice? She and Madame Sosostris—are waiting in the next room. I have them read my beads daily—it’s all quite legit, my dears. It’s all done with smoke & mirrors—with what’s her name’s “queer objective correlate.” Snark breeds and broods—there’s no end to how much it promulgates itself… Pick an exact snarky detail—let that picture carry its own connotations. Make it as Consciously concrete as possible… If you do it right, my dears—clearly clicking your ruby slippers just so… Then surely there’ll be no ho-hum hocus-pocus—even Miss Morris’ “The Nymph’s Song to Hylas” has snarky possibilities. Forget all that Wizard of Oz baloney—stick close to the Wicked Witch… Remember Marvell’s snarky little ditty: “The Nymphs got snarky—when nude Hylas got haughty.” In your struggle getting beyond Madame Prufrock—try to do it elegantly like Miss Dante with Her smarmy Inferno… It takes a lot of snarky Weltschmertz—mocking yourself mercilessly. Ditch all that supercilious cultivated Ersatz fastidiousness—replace it with stunningly immediate Snarky articulateness… Please don’t be bashful or shy—Project yourself thru the usual tacky Personae. Thru your own smarmy Sweeney—thru your own Snarksville Waste Land so Miss Mockingbird tres unique… Don’t be repulsed by vulgarity—look at me here tonight crusing alluring Snarksville night… Didn’t let it pass you up, my dears—your gift for snarky Loquaciousness. Be bored and disillusioned with yourself—it will improve your Dramatic lyric intensity. All this requires the hard precision—of a Diamond tiara, honey. Plus the Steely edge your Fräulein luger—there in your rhinestone purse.

“Madame Sosostris—

famous clairvoyante…”

—T. S. Eliot,

The Waste Land

Get a snarky Boyfriend first—he’ll want a Ring. A wedding ring for his Finger—plus lots of loot. The more he smirks the better. That way each Night—with the moon oozing down thru your condo skylights. You’ll have plenty off time—to get to know Love & wipe that smirk off his cute face. Imitation of Life is full of fake sapphires—falling down with the credits of Lana Turner’s Imitation of Life (1959). Let Troy Donahue faint—hiding his face in your mulatto arms. It’s okay to pass—just be careful of Speaking in Tongues. Never tell a Spastic Falling Angel—more than he needs to know. Falling down into your arms—like Lana Turner’s Prince of Darkness… Stop at nothing—let them break your smarmy heart. Let them try—you’ll learn Snark better that way. If Troy hollers—don’t let him go. Be around Him—when he falls… Cross-eyed teen Telepath are hot—when they lose it. When they can’t help it—that’s the best kind of faggy frisson. They’re all in love with themselves—the more the better for you. His name is Sebastian Sosostris—sullen Son of the famous Clairvoyante. Don’t you just hate it—when Badboys are bad? When they lose it all—Channeling their best your way? Getting to know them—and their intimate Never-Never Land?

"Eliot was Felix, of course:

fussy, clerkish, conservative

in both politics and religion,

so somber that as a young

man he sometimes dabbed

his face with powder to make

himself look even grayer."

—Charles McGrath

NYTimes 1/27/2008

Sebastian’s hair… He turns on the radio—he caresses his fine butt in front of the mirror. His vanity requires much better responses—than merely his right hand. His bold stare—as if he’s always on some young selfish guest… Vivienne picks him up—goes down on him in the living room. Later pacing her room—she congratulates herself. She does him—just to make me jealous. She rarely succeeds anymore—except in driving me to the bars. Alone smoothing her ass—the young man has flushed and made her feel indifferent. After assaulting her once—on the living room sofa. His exploring hands—getting no resistance from her or me… Sebastian is just as bored as Vivienne and me—as he stares at me desultorily while he fucks her… As she looks up at the ceiling—smoking a cigarette. So many young men—doing it in front of me… All of them aware I’m an impotent fairy—a victimized voyeur of my heartless wife. Later Vivienne yawns—“Well now that’s done.” She seems glad it’s over… Allowing the thought of the sofa to fade—with its young man so Carbuncular svelte & smarmy… I give her a final snarky kiss—patronizingly groping my way up the unlit stairs…“But my dear” she says—but I ignore her as usual. Being married to Vivienne—is like being blind Tiresias living in 2 worlds… Yes, even I who’ve sat—by the walls of Thebes and wept… Vivienne carries on—there’s hardly anything I can do about it, my dear. Except try some lavender maybe chartreuse eye-shadow—for tonight’s drag makeup trolling of the bars... If anything—the powder-room is for me not her. Looking young & gay—it’s difficult business…

“while thy presence dispels—

our vain hesitations”

—T. S. Eliot, “Ode,”

Snarksville Poems

My future—Snarksville took it away from me… I will always be Past tense—more past than present. The future—all those years after losing Verdenal. So much love back then—cruel youthful ambitions springing April erect… My thoughts are snarky now—nothing could be more snarky than my Snarksville past… It didn’t give me any wisdom—nor strength turning their sons to lovers… I bestowed and lavished all my hopes—on those more importunate years. My vain hesitations and fears—waiting in the snarky shadows. Snarksville was never my home—only the temporary bastion of carney bluebloods.

“Panthers rising from lairs—

In forests thinkening below”

—T. S. Eliot, “Circe’s Palace”

Snarksville Poems

Snarksville queen bee—pretending to be calm… Calm, cool and collected—snarky Snarkette goddess me. Lovely Snarksville—full of snarky lies… Pensive in my House of Usher—up on brooding Snark Hill… Under the staircase—sluggish pythons sleep… The parrot, the pretty boyz, the good ship Lollypop—the best that money buys. All the cute young Snarksville guttersnipes—up and down the cruisey staircase… They tiptoe in the night—except cute Johnny Eck. He takes the elevator—with a knife between his teeth. He shows me lurid Maria Baclanova pics—on his tacky cellphone. Gone her days of Trapeze Queen fame & fortune. Now Maria grovels in the sawdust—cross-eyed clucking Chicken Woman. Fallen Angel there—amidst the rubes, the carneys and the freaks… Look closely—it’s me…

“in my best mode oblique”

—T. S. Eliot, “Nocturne”

Snarksville PoemsS

narksville is male oblique—uncourteously smarmy… The moon’s frenzied Eyeball—ogling thru my iced-over window… The perfect climax—pretending I’m Juliet… Letting the conversation fail—letting my swoon sink… Getting rid of Romeo afterwards—the sooner the better. There’s a snarky mess to clean up—fuck it I’ll do it later. After all I’ve been fucked to death—after that what does anything matter? Isn’t that what Snarksville does best—making me grovel for two-way Romeos? Poor Maria, Lola and Juliet—what we girls have to go thru…

“One of my marionettes is dead”

—T. S. Eliot, “Humoresque,”

Snarksville Poems

Snarksville denouement—it’s over with. For whom the bell tolls—my Oscar up there on the mantelpiece. Why am I so sacrilegiously contemptuous—of Snarksville’s snappiest fashion plates? They’re the sexiest men alive—comic, dull, with lovely grimaces like common rapists… The kind of faces—you’d want to smother with a pillow. Snarksville USA—how can I possibly forget you? Your ungainly unmanly marionettes—the way they twist inside me? Jumping out like Jack in the Box surprises—when I least expect it? Their faces unfolding like snarky accordions—falling down the stairs like gone Mr. Slinkys?

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