Kiss Me, Deadly II

Kiss Me, Deadly

“A crack in the plaster
zigzagged across the
room and disappeared
under the molding.”
—Mickey Spillane,
“Kiss Me, Deadly”

his eyeballs would budge—
he simply couldn’t help it
his heart of darkness

tyrone lorded it over me—made me get down on my hands & fuckin’ knees. he made me beg for it—he made me beg really bad. That was fuckin’ easy tho—I had no shame. The more ashamed he tried to make me—the more I wanted it. after awhile he made me pay for it—he made me start paying for it by the inch. No more freebies he said—you goddamn fuckin’ no-good dirty white boy cocksucker. You’re gonna start payin’ for it—since you seem to need it so bad. It’s a C-note and a twenty—that’s fuckin’ cheap by the inch. A lousy ten bucks—for my big black dick. Get the bucks now—or you’re gonna be without any of me anymore. Me and my choc-o-late crème de crème—cumly Coca-cola cock, asshole.

it was really bad—
catching him in the showers
beating off a lot

you’ve gotta pay to play sometimes—it’s the name of the game. it takes lots of dough sometimes—to get what you want. it takes moolah—to milk a mulatto kid brother. so i shrugged—and got down to business. i started stealing outta mother’s purse—i started mooching her credit cards. i started stealing dough from all her old bag rich lady friends—during their tacky drunk bridge parties out by the pool. sipping their martinis into oblivion—snarking about their good-for-nothing boring professor husbands. gossiping about this and that—all the little important things that go into living in a little college town. the faculty lounge tea parties—the concert now and then. an inge play to entertain their wilting weltschmerz. their faculty freudenschade—that prickly tendency to feel bad when something good happens to somebody else.

young mighty joe young—
my mulatto kid brother’s
huge anaconda

i even pawned my mother’s jewelry—her lousy diamond wedding rings & all that crapola. stuff she didn’t wear anymore—her mother’s heirloom jewelry. all those tacky antique pearl necklaces, the crummy silverware we never used. whatever i could get my hands on and sell—i sold it to pay tyrone off. the gimpy hunchback midget pawn dealer—lurking there his dirty little pawn shop behind the bijou theater. he bought my contraband and nerdy stuff—paying a pretty penny for it. he leered knowingly at me—knowing what i needed the dough for. it was no secret to him—that i was bribing my kid brother. he knew where the real family jewels were—and why i wanted to get my lips on it. the all-knowing gimpy hunchback pawn dealer—he had a lovely connoisseur’s collection of masculine memorabilia. trying to seduce me into his backroom all the time—saying he wanted to show me his etchings. i was polite of course—i kept him dangling on the hook. i needed hard cash—for my own fancy artwork divagations. and they weren’t stupid etchings either—my stuff had to do with cumly congolese runny pearls and rare exotic wild zambique cuisine. the gimp was understanding—he was always ready to make a deal.

all the jealous girlz—
if they only knew the truth
about after school…

tyrone smirked at me—it really turned me on. he’d smirk and look away—not wanting to see his old brother be such a famished fag. i couldn’t help it though—i was beyond the beyond. i had no shame whatsoever then—he was scornful of the way i slurped it up and wanted more. even when i started paying for it—he didn’t much wanna do it. but he needed the dough—for hot dates and weed from the mexicans south of the tracks. he smoked all the time up in his room—patchouli stunk up his hippie shorts and t-shirts. sandalwood incense was burning up there all the time—he was into sitar music and all that shit. it all helped to dumb him down some more—there’s nothin’ like getting’ off a loaded cross-eyed hippie boy all the way. all the way from dumb-assed siddhartha—to smart-assed steppenwolf. all the way from the towers of lumbini and kapilvastu—to the bunkers and sewers of berlin and vienna. he wasn’t that dumb tho—he knew i needed him bad. all 12 inches of his young—mighty joe young manhood. his big thick negro family tree—its roots sunk deep in chicago. his young black saxophone stud father—growing fast down there in his groaning groin. mother still had pics and newspaper clippings—of that yearlong fling long ago. after her divorce from my shitty father—when she did what she needed to do. she got outta town—escaped to the windy city. she fell in love with a young handsome black sax player—and she didn’t look back. tyrone was her “love child”—she treated him special. i treated him special too—i full of brotherly love for my cute young mandingo kid brother...

one learns pretty fast—
that it takes two to tango
in this mean old world

the result was sullen, moody tyrone my kid brother—the talk of the town, the gossip of the girl’s room, the tut-tut of the locker-rooms. he learned to flaunt it early—it was a gossipy, fuckin’ little red state town. west of kansas city—plopped down in the middle of nowhere. like a stinkin’ little college town cow-patty—out in the boondocks somewhere. a santa fe railroad town—with shiny santa fe steel tracks running through it. day and night—freight trains and cattle cars coming & going. lonely train whistles blowing in the night—tall ghostly white grain elevators looming over the town. suicidal fantasies of death—jumping off them ka-splat down onto the tracks. the only thing saving me—tyrone’s spaz gasp at night. the world was a pretty shitty place—i wasn’t very impressed. falling in love with him—changed everything for me. it turned everything upside-down & and inside-out. too bad i didn’t find out the awful truth—until his sophomore year. he told me one time—he’d been doing the dirty “69” self-fellatio game—since the fuckin’ seventh grade. it was easy to reach it—it curved straight up there. up there hard—against his hard flat stomach. up past his bulging bellybutton—sliding like a snake up his six-pack abs. i didn’t wanna hear about—i shook my head in disgust. not because fellatio was awful—but because i’d been missing it for so long. what a waste i said to myself in bed at night—i couldn’t sleep just thinkin’ about it. all the young manhood—gone to waste. i asked him if he swallowed it—he said what d’you think dude? i smiled and told him—he was a fuckin cocksucker from way back when. “yeah,” he said—closing his eyes. "but you do it better—too bad you’re not a chick.”

young handsome tyrone—
my reluctant lover boy
he let me do him…

mother didn’t care—she was off to mexico city. she had a new young lover—she wasn’t the marrying type. what’s an inheritance worth—if you don’t enjoy it. you can’t take it with you—you’re born, you make some money, you put it in the bank, you spend it or you lose it, then you die. tyrone didn’t care either. he had a year left in douchebag ingeville—then off to san diego and whatever after that. i didn’t care either—the whole town could go fuck a duck. they could gossip, gawk and stare—all they wanted. who gave a shit—i didn’t care. they could gossip behind our backs till the cows came home—if they only really knew the real skanky truth. me and my kid brother—there in the big old victorian mansion. the old creaky house on haunted hill—there in darkest darkmeat dingeville usa.

it’s a long story—
gay haikus tell it faster
brotherly jizz jive…

mother grew up there—her parents were wealthy. right there in ingeville—named after william inge the famous playwright. we lived on come back little sheba street—the goddamned little dog sheba was gone, gone, gone. there wasn’t that much splendor—out there in the green grass though. there was lots of action upstairs tho—way up there in the fuckin’ darkness at the top of the stairs. if that old victorian mansion—could only talk. the things that went bump in the night—the things that still make me blush in shame. the pints of wasted young negritude—all the runny offspring glutted by my greed. all his sons & daughters—the black mandingo monster. wrapping my clenched fists around it—rimming him and strangling him to death. the death of a thousand blowjobs—the slow death of young able. east of eden getting done in—by his cannibal cain brother. so much for the innocent garden of eden—what progeny to haunt the earth. the mark of cain—my big rubbery lips.

prose is kinda slow—
it drags out all the good parts
every juicy inch…

it was a typical midwestern shitty college town—smack dab in the middle of the most bigoted religious conservative red state repug shit hole in the country. mother shrugged—she ditched her crummy businessman first husband. she got outta town after her divorce—and got a little romance in the windy city. for a fuckin’ break—young tyrone was the result. we were pretty much on our own—mommy dearest loved us but she did her own thing. she liked being on the go—and spending time in various lovely cities. she loved rio de janeiro and buenos aires—she read spanish novels. she like borges and saramago—she was in lisbon for his funeral. paris during the spring—and athens of course. she had the hots for young greek soldiers—making love in the moonlight on the steps of the parthenon. she spent springs in rome—like the roman spring of mrs. stone. we’d get postcards—and birthday gifts. both tyrone and i were happy for her—and enjoyed her being away in a perverse sort of way. that way we had the mansion to ourselves—and did whatever we wanted. she was very laissez-faire about life and love—she was cremated and her ashes strewn off Taromina there in the mediterranean. how appropriate i thought—besides it was like my idea anyway.

storytelling moves—
a sleek tell-all discothèque
like club fifty-four…

tyrone was mommy dearest’s handsome, angelic love child—a gift from that lovely second honeymoon year she spent in chicago. tyrone knew all about it—it was no big deal or fuckin’ secret to him. he was gonna join the navy next year anyway—he just shrugged everything off for now. he was just waiting his chance—to get outta town and find himself. that’s another story—and how later he got married after the war. Divorced and married again in Miami. And how sixteen years later—his cute young son knocked on my door one night…

cute ryan phillippe—
pretty new york disco boy
high society

i didn’t have to go much anywhere—to find romance or figure out who i was. i knew who i was—and what i was. i knew what i wanted—even if it didn’t want me. in fact what didn’t want me actually turned out—to be the best thing of all. the more it didn’t want to—the nicer it got. the more it didn’t want to—the harder it got off. tyrone was that way—all the way. always playing hard to get. always acting put–upon. poor put-upon tyrone—he was such a haughty little bitch. making me beg for it—making me pay for it. it brings out the bitch in a guy—when he ends up a kept man. the estate went to both of us—but i’m the one who was executor. me and this fag attorney in kc—who pretty much let me get away with murder. tyrone resented it—but there was nothing he could do. to make up for it—i bought him a fairly nice used baby-blue ’59 cadillac convertible. i’d take him out into the country—for long rides at night. i’d let him drive out there on those lonely old highways—down along the river and up into the flint hills. up there where old dinosaurs lurked—in the limestone quarries. where ancient fence-posts lined the country roads—the hiss of the big flat tires and the smell of cottonwoods in the damp river air. i’d let tyrone drive out there all night long—as long as i could get him off. brotherly love—can be so heartbreaking. when they whimper like a baby—and come like a man. can there be such a thing—as getting too much? getting him off too much—and then some more?

how can one forget—
him looking away from me
when i did him bad?

i couldn’t help it—i didn’t wanna miss a drop. not a single squirt—not a single wiggle. deep darkest africa—living right under our roof. i didn’t have to travel outta town to find love—all i had to do was lock tyrone’s bedroom door. i didn’t have to go to kansas city—or do the bath-scene there. it was just waitin’ for me—homegrown long & lanky. i was an early devotee—to heart of darkness and light in august. conrad and faulkner—put a spin on my prurient interests. i was a lip-synch literati—i practiced what they preached. the horror, the horror of it all—being a dinge queen in the early sixties.

playing the supremes—
stop, stop in the name of love
that’s what my heart said

all i knew back then—was how to stop in the name of love. it stopped me good—day and night. it stopped me—in the middle of something. it stopped me—when i least expected it. it stopped me—in the middle of class. it stopped me—in the middle of walking home at night. it stopped me in the middle of nothing—just sitting there in the living room. watching tv or a movie. it was the only thing worthwhile—stopping in the name of love. i stopped—and it stopped me. it stopped me all the way—and tyrone helped me to stop it some more. nothing seemed to really stop it—stopping in the name of love. we stopped it all the time that way there—upstairs in his room back home way back then. it’s hard to do—stopping the world in the name of love. it stopped my heart—it stopped my brains. it stopped the whole fuckin’ shebang—each day the world stood still a little more. “klaatu mirada nikto”—that was my motto of love back then. i got tyrone off good whenever we could—moody sullen tyrone knew how to do it good. my cute uncut astro-stud kid brother—my venusian lover-boy from outer space. stop in the name of love—that’s all i had to do to do him. stop in the name of love—it’s all i really needed to do to do it. that old mansion we lived in back then—on come back little sheba street. that big old house on spooky haunted hill—it had many secrets, it had many rooms. it’d been in our twisted, decadent family—for many, many years. if only that dark old house on haunted hill—could talk and tell stories. and later on it did—it did thru me.

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