Sunday, March 31, 2013



“A bitter pessimism about
the possibilities of human
interaction pervades Tod
Browning’s work.”
—David Skall & Elias Savada

Pearls before Swine—
Jewels in the Carnie Sawdust

It really turns me on, baby—
gimme your PINHEAD LOVE!!!

Talk to me sexy FREAKY—
Be Mother Nature’s BIG MISTAKE

Handsome MUTANT MAN—
right up my fuckin’ alley, baby

got ya in that TOKYO Nightclub

SUSHI STUD so exquisitely fine—
real nice piece of LIVE EVIL EEL 

I like it raw naked fresh—
even tho it be awful expensive

Your Yakuza Sugar Daddy—
pimpin' you out for $10,000

Saturday, March 30, 2013

True Love


Sometimes I hate every—
Stupid word you say

Sometimes I wanna slap you—
Then kiss you with both my faces

There’s no one quite like you—
You push all my buttons down there

I know life would suck without you—
All the same I still hate you

I wanna wrap my hands around it—
You’re an asshole but I need you

I’m just mad over you that’s why—
I’m still here, hanging around you

You’re the only love I’ve ever known—
Even tho I still fuckin hate you

So much so it must be true love—
It’s gotta like be fuckin true love

Nothing else can break my heart—
It’s really getting harder & harder

No one else can turn me on—
Who cares if you’re a mental retard

It’s true love, baby, true love—
You’ve got me wrapped around your finger

Please oh Please, be mean to me, baby—
C’mon do it to me real nice and slowly

You can do babe, c’mon that’s the way—
Shoot your brains out you big hunk

Why do you walk away afterwards—
Like without sayin a fuckin thing

Even so, I wonder how in the world—
I ever came to be without you, babe

I think it must be true love true love—
Nothin can break my heart like true love!!!

Friday, March 29, 2013



—for Allen Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation—
turn into SHIT, constipated complacent,
shitty ASSHOLES dragging themselves through 
vast lonely empty New Depression streets,
crummy Ghost-Malls and dark back-alleys…

YAKKING away on their dead cell-phones, talking
to themselves in strange twilight Tweeter speak,
floating through ruins of gone Suburban Malls,
parking lots full of burned-out spectral SUV’s…

Their shitty burned-out microwaved—
varicose-veined mushy dead brains,
their meathead ratty robot kids, children of
the Slacker generation, microchips hanging out
their assholes, talking blindly into dead air…

Scowling zombie-eyed American youth—
seduced by Bieber bubble-headed bimbos,
Lady Gaga goosey clones of their Couch Potato 
Daddies & Stepford Wives mommies, 
Saturday afternoon football games and six-pack babies, 
darkness descending over vast pill-popping, snorting, 
marijuana haze American Twilight Zone…

Bored bipolar post-traumatic Deficit Disorder Divas—
back-engineered by scowling bionic shadowy
Dystopian Corporate Monsanto mad scientists down 
to the last GMO gulp & final microwave twitch & 
spastic cell phone tumor. Followed by a nice shitty—
bioluminescent biohazard GREASY FART…

George Orwell’s Bad Hair Day soup du jour—
making sure all of the Prison Planet’s clocks are
like striking Thirteen o’clock. Plus Boredom Bingo
ruling the Bourgeois Masses, entertained by the  
same old fascist TV corporate commissars here in 
the Great Gulag Archipelago WASTE LAND.

Giving our BOZO Baby Boomer offspring & their 
Slacker Generation kids—the Old Soft-Shoe Dance 
down the fuckin drain, beneath another shitty rotten 

sad-sack Miami Blue Moon bloated up there in the 

Sky with bulimic Fukashima glow.

Breeders Awake!!! Take a good look at—your 
fat-assed Big Mac obese children sucking up 
all that cheap mercury-tainted corn syrup in 
all their shitty fast food & Pepsi-Cola. Gobbling 
all the SHIT FOOD down like craved heroin addicts—
all of them fat-assed with diabetes, these are your 
vaccine-poisoned lovely Children of the Night, 
look at what we’ve done to our Pretty Pouty Progeny…

SHIT, double SHIT, triple SHIT—just look at us. 
Aren’t we the Epicurean Epitome of the Evil Empire? 

Aren’t we the Envy of the Whole World—
quickly becoming just another crummy 
two-bit down & out Third World Dump,
hated by all the wised-up BRICS nations—
down the Shitter we go?

Shitty NEW DEPRESSION Weltschmertz—
living inside our illusionary TITANIC sinking dream, 
while we busy ourselves rearranging all the 
deck chairs as the Band Plays On…

SHITTY PONZI Artists, Bankster Gangster schemes—
while Lurid louche Lobbyist Politician Ugly Sisters
dumb us down with Bailouts for the Rich Offshore Elite. 
Mopping up the Remains of the Day—with the usual 
hidden housing market Scams enriched by that 
delicious delinquent Derivative Bubble 
just waiting to fuckin Pop!!!

Ah yes, isn’t the Globalist Agenda so exquisitely sweet—
all that lovely Deregulated Greed, greasy Job Outsourcing 
to those cheap China, Mexican & Indian Slave Labor 
Factories, replacing the Economy with the usual 
Unemployment, Food Stamps and Euthanasia? 

that old Thirties Weimar Kitschy Cabaret Song. 
You know the one—the one with Marlene Dietrich 

Tuesday, March 26, 2013


Slavoj Žižek


“The innermost of
your inner space”
—Slavoj Žižek

SOLARIS is the story of Chis Kelvin, a psychologist who is sent by a rocket to a spaceship circulating around Solaris a newly discovered planet. 

This planet has the magic ability to deeply realize your deepest traumas, dreams, fears, desires. 

The hero of the film finds one morning his deceased wife who committed suicide years ago. 

Kelvin realizes not so much his desire as his guilt feelings. He blames himself all over again.

When Kelvin is confronted with the spectral clone of his deceased wife, although he appears to be deeply sympathetic, spiritually reflective, etc.—his basic problem is how to get rid of her.

She’s simply a clone of his imagination—seemingly resurrecting herself from any death or denouement to come back and haunt him. 

This is what’s driven all the other scientists in the spaceship circling SOLARIS crazy because it’s so irrational. Like being haunted by a disguised Monster of the Id straight outta FORBIDDEN PLANET.

Slavoj Žižek puts his usual spin on the film, the original Andrei Tarkovsky Russian version. Although James Cameron & Steven Soderbergh’s new version of the Stanislaw Lem sci-fi classic has its moments too—thanks to the fine acting of George Clooney.

Slavoj Žižek interprets the Solaris alien as a paradigm for Western subjugation of womanhood as something alien and even evil in the same sense as he sees Darth Vader as the Christian archetypal Evil One in the STAR WAR series. 

He even suggests the possibility of redoing the STAR WAR series from the point of view that the Emperor is the good guy and the Jedi knights are nothing more than a bunch of fucked-up retro Fallen Angels trying to stir up trouble for the EMPIRE.

But Stanislaw Lem, the author of SOLARIS, is known to have pooh-poohed both film versions—by dismissing the possibility that the UNKNOWN can ever be conceptualized or known by mere human beings. 

Simply because the UNKNOWN is the UNKNOWN—and we have no way of knowing who or what the OTHER is since perhaps EARTH is actually SOLARIS. And the whole purpose of being here—is to familiarize us with something which our limited monkey brains can’t possibly understand yet.

Something totally Exo-Political—that has created and cloned us and perhaps even genetically retro-engineered us into who we are. Just like Kelvin’s wife in the spaceship suddenly appears—circling this new strange world SOLARIS.

SOLARIS = EARTH which could possibly mean that we are actually the clones of somethingsomething very advanced and perhaps even bored with being eternal angels of the unfathomable galactic deep?

Desiring perhaps to GO HOMEWARD ANGEL—as the author Thomas Wolfe wrote about way back when. To experience the pain & heartache & possible annihilation of—something we were and something we’re yet to be again.

Key Largo

Claire Trevor, “Moanin’ Low” from KEY LARGO


I do my own MOVIES—
I do it with Words

The lives of poets & writers—
that really doesn’t interest me

Nobody’s perfect in this old world—
especially fucked-up actors

Instead I let my mind meld—
with some actor or actress’ Muse

Muse to Muse communiqués—
the usual surreal Automatic Writing

Faulkner did it with Raymond Chandler—
writing the filmscript for THE BIG SLEEP

Stream of consciousness, I suppose—
most of the time I don’t think about it

Like Billy Wilder letting Gloria Swanson—
Ad lib Norma Desmond in SUNSET BLVD

I just let it happen spontaneously—
impromptu improvisation outta the blue

Muses get that way sometimes, honey—
Grande Guignol queens especially

I’ve learned to fasten my seatbelt, baby—
Bette Davis with her Bumpy Night Routines

Nothing quite like ALL ABOUT EVE—
George Sanders as wicked Addison DeWitt

I’ve learned to swish like Tony Curtis—
and Jack Lemon in SOME LIKE IT HOT

I’ve learned to fly over Kansas fast—
after watching awful IN COLD BLOOD

I’ve been paranoid & scared to death—
like poor Joan Crawford in SUDDEN FEAR

I’ve let thugs like handsome Jack Palance—
use & fuckin abuse me like an old whore

getting undone in Lafitte’s during Mardi Gras

I’ve known a lot of old queens ending up—

I’ve known has-been divas like Claire Trevor—
Singing “Moanin Low” in tragic KEY LARGO

I’ve felt the same way sometimes late at night—
wind blowin outside cooped up with some hoods

I’ve known some really nice Stiff Ones—
like in Tourneau’s I WALKED WITH A ZOMBIE

I’ve been had by lots of smooth Lounge Lizards—

I’ve even fallen in love maybe once—

All these Hollywood fantasies end up being—
Monsters of the Id outta FORBIDDEN PLANET

But that be Okay because I haven’t given up—
I’m still looking for the perfect exquisite Lover

My one & only handsome SON OF FRANKENSTEIN—
Even if he be ugly with lots of awful stitches

That’s when I’ll sing “Moanin Low” just for him—
Just like Claire Trevor in KEY LARGO

Sunday, March 24, 2013

New Journalism


“Failure is the condiment 
that gives success its flavor.”
—Truman Capote

The origins of NEW JOURNALISM—
begin there in BIG APPLE baby

But I hate to disillusion you—
it really begin in de DEEP SOUTH

Dat where American Disillusionment—
really begin fuckin Big Time, honey

There be no Tragedy Queens quite—
like Truman Capote, my dears

Endearing NYC High Society with—
her class & naughty Endearments

The embodiment of Noblesse Oblige

Stooping to conquer with—
Audrey Hepburn in all her beauty

Starring George Peppard in all his—
Young male American beauty

After that the doors opened—
Miss Capote wormed her way in

The rich socialites couldn’t wait—
to cocktail La Côté Basque delights

came the original criminal novel

The one that Capote lived thru—
the thing that finally did him in

tacky MEME for the Deep South

It be nothing but a Romantic Illusion—
Depicting a faux Delta Imagination

Still, failure deeply haunts Southerners—
can they even fathom their own despair?

It be buried deep in Deep South ennui—
down where Southerners fear to tread

Harper Lee tries to make it seem heroic—

Gregory Peck in de role of Atticus Finch—
great Elocutionist for de High & Mighty

While Carson McCullers gets down, baby—
reading de beads with faggy Marlon Brando

Why oh why do we see ourselves there in—

I’ll tell you why, little Butterfly McQueen—
because nobody know nothin bout Dixie

De depth of Deep South despair—
what it mean to lose a Caribbean Empire

De fear & loathing that comes from losing—
Cotton, Cane, Rum & Antebellum Aristocracy

Southerners be the only Americans—
who have felt the cruel Heel of Conquest

Think about it with all our Expeditions—
all out Roman Legion conquests, honey

Treatin’ the whole world like it be—
nothing but the Defeated Deep South?

Carpetbaggers & crooked Politicians—
Steel & Railroad barons nothin new baby

Huey P. Long’s tall Capitol Skyscraper—
monument to JFK Camelot nostalgia, honey

IN COLD BLOOD be a little more Realistic—
let’s look at de disappearing FLY OVER STATE 

Gone de Red State Republithug innocence—
just like de Deep South antebellum charisma

Gone the gothic Americana Kansas naiveté—
just like de tragic burning of Atlanta, Georgia

Gone forever High Plains stark stoicism—
Straight as Santa Fe Railroad tracks nowhere 

Wake up CALL from New York City—
Big City crime & sudden violent REALISM

This be what attracted a writer like Capote—
a chance to explore New Crime Journalism 

Exploring sudden shock to pure Innocence—
Evil Snake and Fall of Eve’s Garden Scene

The terrible Birth of Midwestern NOIR—
out there in Nowhere Land of Holcomb KS

New Journalism


IN COLD BLOOD be an acid Flashback—
an American X-Ray Snapshot of Hell

Suddenly New York City comes to visit—
naïve, innocent little Garden City, KS

it be NEW JOURNALISM at its best

Shockingly trashy as NATIONAL ENQUIRER—

Dreary & drag-queen as DRAGNET—
“Just the FACTS, lady, just the FACTS”

Skip de usual tacky bourgeois reportage—
just like her interview with Miss Brando

C’mon, like stop fuckin around, baby—
Let’s get down to the personal nitty-gritty

I ain’t got time fuckin around dontchaknow—
the Clutters got butchered like Hogs, honey

Right out there in the middle of All-American—
kitschy Kansas suddenly gone Film Noir

The question be WHY & HOW did it happen—
unlike in jaded so-what ho-hum NYC?

Miss Capote got right in there, baby—
got to know American Gothic all de way

Livin in de High Plains Motel forever—
there in the fuckin boondocks of Kansas

Him & nobody else except Avedon—
his old friend from NYC documentary dayz

This be how NEW JOURNALISM begins—
in de stark Precincts of de BIG APPLE

A Bio

Mich Gunwell


“Gay people are just like
straight people. But straight
people lie about who they
really are.”—Michael Bronski

Capote was a realist—
the Man with X-Ray Eyes

He portrayed people by what—
he knew they were and did

The reason for Perry Smith—
doing what he did & why

It wasn't done in cold blood—

it be done outta fag jealousy

Something that Str8ts don’t—
wanna recognize or know about

That an ex-con could be gay—
& jealous just like a Str8t could be

Dick and Perry be a married couple—
their honeymoon in a prison cell

Did that make them psychopathic—
like some Topeka psychiatrists say?

Perry be faggy all the way, honey—
Hearts, Clubs, Diamonds & Spades

It be a loaded Str8t deck of cards—
that got played that night in Kansas

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Midwest Moderne


Overheard in a cowboy bar in Strong City, Kansas:
FIRST COWBOY: Hey, Dude!!! How’s it hangin’, huh?
SECOND COWBOY: Pretty shitty, man. Been feelin’
kinda blue. Like I had to fuckin jack off this morning
just to get my goddamn heart started….

Kansas be a piece of cake, honey—
most male butchy cowboys be EASY

I mean guyz who strut around in—
pointy-toed high-heeled cowboy boots?

What could be more nelly than that, girl—
and those size-queen Stetson sombreros?

Gimme a fuckin break, sweetheart—
Nelly Cowboy Couture be pretty kitschy

Those ever so tight & revealing bluejeans—
showing off such lovely bowlegged thighs?

Who dreamed up such an outré Style—
surely some Kansas Andy Warhol, honey?

Maybe Miss Grant Wood poor closet thing—
painting that tawdry “American Gothic” couple?

Edward Hopper with her fag noir “Nighthawks”—
gettin close to Hemingway's  “The Killers”?

That stark, lonely Greenwich Village diner—
in the middle of some vast dark predatory night

A scene right outta IN COLD BLOOD—
Miss Capote in a gay country cowboy bar

Gettin to know that grim gay Gothic reality—
known as the Red State Republithug façade

Play that lonely forlorn honky-tonk jukebox—
Hank Williams’ YOUR CHEATIN HEART, baby

Dance with those lonely cowboy rodeo stars—
your head on their nice big wide shoulders

Ending up in some ratty old NO TELL MOTEL—
drinkin whiskey and smokin Mexican dope

Cheap black velvet Elvis the Pelvis portraits—
hangin down from the cockroach walls

Wakin up bleary-eyed in an empty bed—
with a fuckin Killer Holcomb Hangover 

Nothin like maudlin Motel Moderné, baby—
gettin in the mood for MURDER IN COLD BLOOD

Especially if you’re a bored Big Apple writer—
pimping for the hoity-toity NEW YORKER



“Holding down a part-time job as a copyboy at The New Yorker, Capote was certain that his rise to literary greatness was just on the horizon.”Douglas McCollam, "In cold type," Columbia Journalism Review, November 1, 2012

No longer an Isherwood camera—
a faux innocent tape recorder instead

Brando’s interview in THE NEW YORKER—
the flaming end of old HOLLYWOOD

Capote disguised as Trojan Horse—
ending the Hollywood Studio System

Queering it with Stanislav—
using the Method ditching the Schmaltz

Treating Hollywood Babylon—
like he did NYC tacky High Society

Interviewing the High and Mighty—
dishing the rich jet-set bourgeoisie

Letting their own gossip undo them—
La Côte Basque on East Fifty-fifth Street

Confessing their deep dark tacky secrets—
all the La Grenouille, La Caravelle snobbisme

One could say she betrayed them—
taking New Journalism into secret places

Getting the Rich & Famous to gossip about—
things they’d never say to THE NEW YORK TIMES

Nothing quite like tipsy Millionairesses—
their trashy gossip a la “La Côté Basque”

Friday, March 22, 2013



“Somerset Maugham called him “the hope of modern literature.”—Douglas McCollam, "In cold type," Columbia Journalism Review, November 1, 2012

Capote had this confidence in herself—
like many decadent Delta Bourbons

William Faulkner, Carson McCullers—
Harper Lee, Walker Percy and himself

These be Aristocrats of the Deep South—
going back to Antebellum times

Faulkner said his tour-de-force novel—

“I began to write with no plan at all—
I wasn’t even writing a book”

“One day I seemed to shut a door—
Now I can finally write I said to myself”

This is what happened with Capote—
he didn’t just have auditory recall

He had this gay Guardian Angel who—
dictated his novels & short stories

Perhaps without him knowing it but—
simply accepting it as a dark gift

Beginning New Journalism by—
interviewing a dumb Hollywood thug

A young moody pouty movie star—
handsome vain butchy Marlon Brando

Capote took the Stanislav Method—
turning the interview inside-out

Wednesday, March 20, 2013



“Truman Capote was a chronic and
habitual liar and mythomane, and
also a writer of outré but certifiable
genius, although oddly enough 
never considered true camp.”
—James McCourt, Queer Street:
Rise and Fall of an American Culture

Perhaps there’s no such “thing” as—
a “non-fiction” novel as Capote opined

But rather after exhausting his Fiction—
he turned to Non-Fiction to Fictionalize?

Having mined his own bildungsroman—
for the gold, diamonds & rubies of life

He had no where else to go to be a liar—
than the rest of the world out there

It could be New York, jet-setting around—
the world like the bored rich seem to do

It could be High Society gossip striptease—
fabulating, imagining, even telling lies

So much so that he had to get outta town—
go somewhere far away, dumb & backward

Where he could get away with his inveterate—
ingratiating, flamboyant magic realism?

Just real enough to make you think it’s true—
even worming his way into a convict’s mind

Doing it better than even an ex-con does—
becoming a con-artist & learning the trade

Most ex-cons don’t consider telling the truth—
to be much good for surviving life in prison

Dick Hickcock was pretty smooth at it—
cashing bad checks, taking advantage of chicks

He was able to con Perry Smith into robbing—
the Clutters out there in the middle of nowhere

Perry was pretty vulnerable to lying & stealing—
but the real con-artist was Truman Capote

Truman weaseled his way into Perry’s confidence—
just like he did with the tipsy High Society dames

Getting them to tell all the juicy gossip & secrets—
then spilling the beans & spreading the dirt

The same with low-life gimpy gay Perry Smith—
milking the Clutter Murder Case outta him but good

Swishing thru the halls of the Lansing Prison—
Zeroing in on Perry with an unerring snobbisme

Ingratiating himself there in that prison cell—
like the Côte Basque on East Fifty-fifth Street

As if it were some NYC chic restaurant—
Lafayette, The Colony, La Grenouille, La Caravelle

Capote wanted the dirt before Perry cooled—
stuff even the Topeka shrinks didn’t know

Dick Hickcock smirked at Miss Capote—
replaced this time with a REAL con-artist

All the way from New York High Society—
to Death Row there in Lansing Prison

The way to get ANSWERED PRAYERS, honey—
is to lie, cheat and steal the TRUTH