Friday, September 30, 2011

An Odor of Verbena

An Odor of Verbena

"Behind the smokehouse

that summer, Ringo and I

were smoking a joint."

William Faulkner, The


miss mosely laprick—
such a lovely creole doll
he’s so beautiful.

levitates her way—
if pussy could only talk
makes all the men gawk.

mobster’s creole moll—
(bullshit walks but money talks)
she be dick-crazy.

katrina blows in—
but nothing to compare with
miss mosley’s blowjobs.

from natchitoches down—
along the cane river those
sullen creole boyz.

(but not as blue as
miss mosely laprick
when he sings in drag.)

“she be mosely bad”—
madame lapuke said to me
on the verandah.

i snorted some coke—
an odor of verbena
oozed thru me slowly.

it was no surprise—
no glib gay presentiment
about miss mosely.

down outta the swamp—
the evening uncloaking
my gay aberrations.

“thank you, sir,” she said—
after a line of cocaine
“i needed somewhat.”

then off her mouth went—
miss lapuke knew all the dirt
unfit to be known.

storytelling then—
back in the bayous was still
a treasured artform.

going to college—
hadn’t taught me anything
compared to her spiel.

“oh unhappy land—
young overdue equinox,
we belabored queens.”

“we must pay the price—
for cain’s incestuous love,
chandeliers tremble…”

i could hear ringo—
moody back in the woodpile
behind the smokehouse.

his passions recalcitrant
outweighed everything.

boyz, river, terrain—
the gay topography lived
... outlived all of us.

ringo so sullen—
possessing a sulkiness
the whole summer long.

the hopeless ordeal—
prolonged much too long, my dear
should i console him?

so damp and humid—
knowing misunderstandings
engendering us.

those patterns of betrayal
between us and him.

we both loved mosely—
he was our male femme fatale
she’d rejected us.

so ringo and i pouted—
with cain’s tainted love for
young abel in drag.

young mosely laprick—
mostly did rich big daddies
there in the big easy.

her sugar daddy—
paid all the expenses there
vieux carre her home.

swanky art deco—
tres chic french quarter condo
mosely be so spoiled.

both ringo and me—
dumped by the little no-good
tramp with big lips.

miss mosely tres bad—
big time into breaking hearts
what’s a guy to do?

“it don’t matter, child,”—
madame lapuke said, consoling
me late in the night.

“he be a creole boy”—
“he’s got albino goodlooks
and a white boyz smile.”

“but he’s criollo—
he’s devil in a blue dress
he’ll drag you down, dear.”

“let rich big daddies—
those creole mobsters keep him
their jailbait kept boy.”

“he’s too expensive—
for trailer trash boyz like you
he’s mandingo now.”

miss mosely laprick—
she does cabaret in drag
mardi gras swan songs.

she sings “voodoo love”—
for all the young sailorboyz
she be blue angel.

creole diva dinge—
craving hot young snopes boyz too
they gather like flies.

like green mold on cheese—
her pussy flypaper lips
carnal canal cunt.

my delta demise—
a kid named mosely laprick
i still want him bad.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Rude Boy

Rude Boy

“I will lose my way”
—Jorge Luis Borges,
“Androgué,” The Maker

I know this str8t guy—
he’s a rude boy just for me
saturday night live.

he likes to show-off—
dub-step remix rihanna
slinky smooth strip-tease.

he does it in bed—
big screen on the wall behind
him high as a kite.

str8t dumb guyz can be—
so fuckin cute & sexy
untouchably lite.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Creole Dinge Queen Blues

Creole Dinge Queen Blues

“The world of Faulkner
is so physical, so carnal…
rivers of brown water,
crumbling mansions,
black slaves, idle and
cruel; it is criollo.”
—Jorge Luis Borges,
“Book Reviews & Notes,”
Selected Non-Fictions

creole full of dinge—
inarticulate whiteness
words just can't describe

whiteness full of noir—
closet dinge queens noticed
his naked white negritude

I cruised him back then—
ancient deep south taboo
creole guy’s dark meat

there in louisiana—
long tradition creole culture
french spanish mulattos

one guy I knew—
he sure was black in the
showers for a white guy

dark and moody—
new orleans creole kid
looked like alain delon

in fact I saw it—
“purple noon” (1960)
down in the big easy

I watched the movie—
twice at a vieux carré
shady porno theater

some guyz are so—
movie star goodlooking
they make you hurt

he didn’t get along—
with his roommate so
he moved in with me

he knew I was gay—
the first thing he said
“okay, lock the door.”

and from then on—
both of us were doomed
to flunk out that semester

it was fateful 1963—
kennedy got his brains
blown out & so did I

every night he—
shot the back of my head
off real nice there in bed

the creole kid was hung—
he had a dinge complexion
and a big black dick

I fell in love with him—
it was like it couldn’t wait
it had to happen fast

this was before—
I fell in love with all the
cute cajuns in the bayous

before I fell in love—
with the handsome negro
janitor and his brother…

creole cum is kinda—
like chinese food, it’s so
exquisitely sweet & sour

creole cock is kinda—
like thai takeout cause it
can be so quick & easy

creole guyz be kinda—
water moccasin-snaky
huge uncut pink heads

the same ten inches—
the same taut testicles
the same ten ways

black creole carnality—
the intensity of it almost
too intolerable to stand

it disintegrated me—
eroded me with dinge
love and penis envy

I don’t believe in ghosts—
“or really?” the creole kid
said and then disappeared

like absalom, absalom—
worse than sound and fury
these delta mandingo lovers

the flowing of time—
the wound’s mortal mine
theater of melancholy

it seems excessive now—
nevertheless I’m grateful for
those profane creole pleasures

knowing his goodlooks—
my impure, stupefying ways
of murdering him every night

living inside a novel—
the murders in the rue morgue
strangling his dick to death.

queens consult oracles—
queens play raymond chandler
I was a killer in the dorm

foul crimes against nature—
a guy gets sucked off nightly
the kid’s dick has a big slit

getting him really loaded—
on some strong cuban weed
he spills his fucking brains out

his orgasm truly posthumous—
dictated from the other world
that’s how bad he loses it

later on, he tells me—
people have heavenly doubles
so do cities & countries above

where’s yours, I asked—
“it’s a celestial belgian congo
to go with my big black cock.”

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Queen of Cuban Baroque


Canonization Of Severo Sarduy
The Dildo Shiny And Oiled ...
Tea Room Soiree
Cuba Grows Movies
Coming, Head Over Heels ...
Coke and Miami Moon
The Wet Terraces Dominating ...
Preceded By The Echo Voice ...
Goodbye Cuba
Caravaggio Omits More Than ...

Canonization Of Severo Sarduy*

These things have little interest—
Popes & Cardinals have more urgent
concerns: the size of pouty young angels,
snakes in Eden, coy jailbait matters.

However I must insist that gay—
dispensation with blood & cum begin
for all martyrs, Our Ladies of Guadalupe,
fag Cuban poets of the real among us.

Our preying mantis str8t leaders
must surely reign in their sarcasm about
male love from time to time?

Poets of exile and suffering know
this is why Rome is down on her knees,
I'm going to demand he’s declared holy!

*Severo Sarduy, Poet, novelist and storyteller
born in Camagüey Cuba 1937 and died 1993.

The Dildo Shiny And Oiled ...
—for Serveo Sarduy

Your nice oiled thing—
revolutionary sluts jubilant,
shedding their seven veils even
more screamingly than usual.

Ditching kitschy disguise—
snorting some coke, turning up
the volume, sealing their lips with
hot str8t kisses, spilling over

Cuban queens on the carpet—
(lips smeared penetratingly,
money dripping forth, fuckingly)

Decrypting Evita Peron darkness—
dirty thoughts, illusions, manliness
slowly oozing unmentionables.

Tea Room Soiree
—for Gerardo Mello Mourão

Glory-holes nothing but keyholes—
ready for all-seeing ogling eyeballs
dark green and perceptive. Some even
retain fond memories for centuries.

The contours of Cuba—
red blood and ink, revolutionary,
fragmented, scattered. Gimme the
cobra jool, Maria Montez whines.

See? Neither Marx or Hollywood,
nor your voice, or even the waves on
the beach, can save Cuba, my dears.

It’s all so futile, phrases flee
phrases, gay poems not recorded,
submerged, Saint Sarduy save us!!!

Cuba Grows Movies

Cuba grows movies—
you and her, all our hopes
slobbering for a body, it’s just
an attempt to shorten the night.

The night has arrived and then—
Saint Sarduy shows up, her knowing
all too knowing bare feet, up in
the air, time suspended.

I don’t remember love just desire:
my lack of faith in everything,
confronting myself in the mirror.

While they fuck her silly,
all night long without stopping
not even thinking of me.

Coming, Head Over Heels ...

Coming head over heels—
kissing, mouth to mouth resusitation:
the air we breathe, the way
you lose it, a little then a lot.

Afternoon light-rays ooze down—
between the slats of Venetian blinds
oozing over the edges of your body
clogging up your snotty crotch.

You’re like a vacuum cleaner
sucking up the white trash dirt
every drop of runny cum.

Nothing pretty about it
the voracious way you go down
on the kid’s Venus torso.

Coke and Miami Moon

Clear bright Miami moon—
seeping off the balcony down
into your bed, the contours
of your twisting neck.

The sluggish siesta—
sluggish in the afternoon, sluggish
lLate at night, the sluggish look
distending your face.

Another time, another time—
South Beach Ocean Drive plus
your sluggish copper loins.

Quick hard squirts—
splanttering my forehead, facial
slug tracks of a nasty, slimy dude.

Wet Terraces Dominating ...
—for Octavio Paz

Wet terraces dominating me—
the temple, hard stomach curled toes,
tiny triangle of pubes, hard Havana
symmetrical sliding thighs.

Fragments of marble in bed—
left-over Apollo torsos, broad hands
your manliness staining my lips
fresh, oozing cumliness.

I’m getting carried away by Miami
now I’m buried deep in the sand
palm trees lean over my head.

I let my hands gliding over you
my eyes rescuing this & that
here a face, an arm, a chest.

Preceded By The Echo Voice ...

Not words preceded by echoes—
nor mirror reflections of your sullen
sulky smirk on the dumb quicksand
cruisy nightclub floor, short-stroking it

Spluging all over the frontseat—
parked by Ocean Drive South Beach
letting the dense enveloping waves
swallow Fontanbleau and me.

Sedate flaboyant art deco
pinks, mauves, lavender hues
reinventing Thirties once again.

Sliding open the balcony door
letting the deco Carlyle décor
open up out into the sea

Goodbye Cuba
—for Luce López-Baralt

Not Cuba, pure nonsense—
how could I possibly obey him?
his ranting speeches, the dark nights
all that exaltation and nonsense?

Things don’t adhere around him—
now language isn’t enough, a game:
like lounging on a sinking Titanic
shuffling the deck chairs around.

There’s nothing left anymore…
he’s just an aging old revolutionary
oblivious to words and images.

And so, Sarduy, Arenas, Puig…
they’re letting Castro’s dumb agenda
grow sullen, moody, silent.

Caravaggio Omits More Than ...

Caravaggio omits more than—
when it comes to his young models,
lighting in the back of his mind a
planet of chiaroscuro chicken delight?

A pulse is there: he enjoys the injured—
pricked thumb bitten by the lizard
better than Bernini or Michaelangelo
roughness of his Roman S/M.

The way he portrays the cute pout,
a Venusian angel, how charming,
the look on his shocked face.

To alleviate his sharp pain
Do you kiss the kid’s finger or do
You paint his portrait once again?

Sunday, September 18, 2011

Betrayed By Rita Hayworth

MCONDO Late Show

Betrayed By Rita Hayworth
Spider Woman

“I needed more
space and freedom”
—Manuel Puig

Suddenly finding oneself—
Doomed to the awful fate of
Miss Borges’ pathetic fictive
Pierre Menard…

Helplessly subverted by—
Being queer Solzhenetisyn
Toiling away in some tiresome
Weary Str8t Gulag…

What’s a poet to do?—
How to translate Rita
Lying dormant like some
Infantesque Frankenstein?

Miss Puig turns to me—
Saying forget Autobiography
My dear, imitate some gay
Writer and entertain me!

Writing Against Oneself

Stultified & stultifying—
The story of so many lives
The political alternate being
“Too Gay, Too Gay.”

15-year-old Lawrence King—
Eighth grader at E.O. Green Junior
High School in Oxnard shot dead
By McInerney a str8t classmate.

King supposedly taunting—
And flirting with handsome McInerney,
Wearing jewelry and makeup to school,
Often in high-heeled boots.

Shot twice in the back—
Of his head while typing an English
Paper in a computer lab in front of
The teacher and all the students.

Is this the choice gay youth—
Must make, living in the closet
Or being bullied and murdered
For coming out too gay?

No wonder young Puig—
As film student at Cinecittá
In Rome ditched directing
In favor of writing instead.

Being a spectator—
In front of the screen rather
Than authoritative director
Behind the Silver Screen.

Subverting Rita Hayworth

Film scripts soon—
Showing how autobiography is
Simply much too complicated for
One’s own cinematic site of creativity.

Subversively translating Rita—
Reconstructing the plot of the film
As a device Puig uses all the way up
Thru Kiss of the Spider Woman.

Monologues, conversations—
Letters, diaries Molina’s forms of
Everyday narration serving to relive
Her past, loves, identity, sexuality.

Film unveiling mass culture—
Thru her cellmate, a political prisoner
Helping us to analyze the values
And ideologies ruling lives & desires.

Miss Puig writes against herself—
Sticks to spoken texts or written ones
By the characters themselves, giving
Chapters descriptive titles.

Like “Toto’s Monolgue, 1941”—
The characters speak for themselves
Rebelling against authority and yet
Struggling with it as well.

Gay/Str8t Betrayal

There’s this scene—
In Journal of a Thief when
Genet’s lover Stilitano gets
Lost in a House of Mirrors.

The fairground audience—
Laughs at the spectable and
Miss Genet does nothing to
Help his handsome gangster.

Genet betrays Stilitano—
Weeps yet takes a gay perverse
Satisfaction in being a voyeur
To this one-armed youth’s angst.

Usually it’s the other way—
The gays continuously betrayed
By the aloof stra8t coolness
Even homicidal Oxnard hate.

So when Puig plays with—
Betrayal “by” Rita Hayworth
It’s his femme fatale alter ego
That’s getting even, my dears.

Authority frightens fags—
And yet we’re drawn to it
As surely as a nelly moth
Is drawn to butchy flame.

Blood and Sand

Outed by a flick—
It’s easy for such a thing
To happen to a girl creating
Mucho ambivlance & desire.

Tyrone Power so primal—
Just ripe for filmic betrayal
Filling Puig with gay sexuality
And unresolved queer longing.

Whether his father—
Or how many Argentine men
Betraying Puig with muy macho
Distainfully dishing his faghood?

Who is Rita Hayward?—
It’s Puig her filmic pseudonym
Margarita Cansino, daughter of
An ambitious Spanish dancer.

Puig is the star herself—
She sees & imagines her own image
Up on the screen betraying lives
As star & agent of infidelity…

An androgynous exercise—
Betraying Stiltano and Powers
While being ambiguous minipulator
Ending up betraying herself too…

Muy Macho / Male Incest

“The polyvalence of
the original title reflects,
mutiple betrayers and
betrayals.”—Suzanne Jill Levine,
The Subversive Scribe: Translating
Latin American Fiction

The novel ends with a letter—
Unsent by Puig’s “father to an
Older brother he once loved.

Seeing oneself as the victim—
Of betrayal by those who one
Deeply, passionately loves
Creates a Labyrinth of Desire.

A Machiavellian conspiracy—
Of irresolvable ambivlence
Toward oneself and others
Unresolvable & never-ending.

Betrayal is “born”—
By this kind of Outing being
Betrayed by oneself both the
Victim and victimizer.

To “be” betrayed by-
Rita Hayworth as well as
“To know” the betrayal
A cumly conundrum.

The vulgar vagarities—
The colloquial immediacy and
Gallery of betrayed voices
Inside one’s desperate heart.

To love & be loved—
By a handsome Tyrone Powers
Or a hung Stilitano kid brother
To betray and be betrayed…

Blood and Sand—
Betrayed by Rita Hayworth
To be outed by Hollywood
Blood and Sperm.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Saving the Day

Saving the Day
—for Tennessee Williams

The ‘60s back then—
Were rather difficult,
My dear, what would I
Have done without you?

I was an oozing pillar—
Salty cum, runny jizz
I had Miss Sodom & Miss
Gomorrah in my blood.

My big mistake was—
Always looking back at
The ruins of the city
The city of fallen angels.

I tried walking upright—
In between classes around
Campus, but I kept oozing
Flowing downhill instead.

The sidewalks tilted—
Everything seemed steep
How reckless of me to try
Gushing queerly about it.

It was like a nightmare—
My feet stuck in quicksand
All the frantic silver mirrors
Tricky as slippery mercury.

Searching for Blanche—
Who nobody talked about
Knowing what Brick knew
But only you wrote about.

It takes one to know one—
You were my gay playwright
Sweet Bird of Youth yours
Miss Summer & Smoke.

Maggie ends up as—
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
Pregnant with Skipper’s kid
Big Daddy knows knowingly.

Alma the closet-case—
There in the town park
With a Summer & Smoke
Cute traveling salesman.

Alexandra Del Lago—
Another faded movie star
Only Tennessee Williams
Seems interested in her.

So that all is not lost—
Thanks to Hollywood and
Your magic touch of words
Arresting my downward fall.

Friday, September 16, 2011

MCONDO Late Show

MCONDO Late Show

“but the boy
was a confirmed
debauchee by that
point”—Shawn Levy,
The Last Playboy:
The High Life of
Porfirio Rubirosa

Chicken Noche, Chicken Comedy/Melodrama, 2012.
78 min. English and Spanish with subtitles.

A classic film of dark faggoty amour fou. Winner of the Cannes Film Festival, a shocking, controversial BioPic about a famous Dominican Republic gigolo youth. The decadent Parisian adolescent coming-out story of Porfirio Rubirosa, known as the Last Great Playboy.

Boy Distress
Kept Boy Beginnings
Gigolo Chicken
Typical Casanova Kid
Swank Ladies Man
Boy Distress—
Dressed to Digress

“You should have
seen him… He was
our little Porfirio
Rubirosa”—Junot Diaz,
The Brief Wondrous
Life of Oscar Wao

It’s lucky, I suppose—
The mulatto fag Queens
Got young Porfirio off
When he was Chicken.

Before Zsa Zsa did—
Dolores del Rio, Eartha Kitt,
Marilyn Monroe, Ave Gardner,
Rita Hayworth, Joan Crawford…

Plus Veronica Lake, Kim Novak—
Doris Duke & Barbara Hutton,
Judy Garland & Eva Peron…
The List is Kunt-numbing.

Kept Boy Beginnings

"an 11-inch cafe
au lait sinker
as thick as a
man's wrist."
—Truman Capote,
Answered Prayers

Porfirio was in luck—
Parisian demimonde just craving
American hot jazz & cute mulatto
Musicians, singers & dancers.

Montmartre below Butte—
The chic Parisian Harlem,
Teeming with Afro-American
Expatriate young studs.

A Caribbean youth—
Mixed blood, café au lait skin,
His hair somewhere between
Wavy and kinky, reckless.

Gigolo Chicken

Such angst, my dears—
Talk about Boy Distress and
Parisian Queens Dressed to
Digress. It goes on & on…

Rumors of the rich kid—
With a simply divine athletic
Body, bedroom eyes and
A huge Dominican dick…

Such lurid Gigolo gossip—
Such Mulatto Shamelessness!
Such Dinge Queen Desires!
Such a handsome Young Man!

Hotels, bars, cafes—
Nightclubs catering to him
Young handsome dark meat
Dancing in a swank tuxedo.

Typical Casanova Kid

He was a Casanova Kid—
He’d give you the pelvic pump
With his big moody bedroom eyes
His nascent negroid Pimp-liness.

Zsa Zsa showed it to me—
This pic of Porfirio in the nude
What a huge black Humdinger
Worthy of a Hollywood Oscar!!!

A typical Dominican dick—
A young Dictator’s piece of meat
More Mobutu than Mobutu himself
Ambassador’s son a la Trujillo.

Swank Ladies Man

Porfirio Rubirosa—
Smooth, rich, sophisticated
His father a wealthy diplomat
To France and then England.

Porfirio puts them to shame—
All the stupid str8t boyz today,
Big Daddy boyz, Baby Doll boyz,
Ghost Mall Apocalypto hustlers.

Detritus of Depression—
The Fall of Rome again, dears
Late Capitalism haunts us in drag
Even our gigolos lack class.


MCONDO Film Festival

“The cinema seems to have
been invented to express the
subconscious life, whose roots
penetrate so deeply into poetry;
but it is almost never used for
that end.”—Luis Buñuel, Cinema,
Instrument of Poetry

There’s a MCONDO Film Festival going on during the weekend at the classic art deco Tower Theater according to the Miami Dade College Events Calendar.

A truly eclectic filmic ménage a trois of three rather excitingly titillating MCONDO Genre films dealing with homoerotic desire and longing. Miami Dade College is expecting a truly tantalizing cinematic muy macho weekend. The gay aspects of Latino-American film have often been hidden in the closet—forbidden, dark, often hidden deep in the skanky back-alleys of contemporary cinematic consciousness.

Cuban-American str8t movie audiences now have a chance to take more than just a peek—deep into gay Hollywood Babylon’s most campy, kitschy, controversial compulsions. Queer Love!!!

Motorcycle Diaries, Str8t Macho Melodrama, 2004. 2 hrs. 7 min. Spanish with English subtitles.

Y Tu Mamá También, Gay-Str8t Comedy, 2002. 1 hr. 45 min. Spanish with English subtitles.

Bad Education, Gay-Str8t Bildungsroman Drama, 2004. 106 min.

Motorcycle Diaries (2004)

“Are you talking to
the motorcycle again?”
—Ernesto Guevara de la Serna

This is the story about two young men. In love with a motorcycle. Or are they in love with themselves? It’s a long drawn-out love affair—stretching from Argentina all the way thru South America to Castro’s Cuba.

What is the underlying MCONDO subtext of this supposedly muy macho love affair between 2 future Cuban Marxist Leaders of the Revolution?

What is this constant undertow and gay undercurrent in the affairs of male-dominated Patriarchal Revolutionary Zeal that so consumed, poisoned and tainted the Revolution?

How much Corporate Male Competition and Historic Homophobic Warfare has overshadowed both North and South America since the Old World discovered the New World?

Could it be that there’s a Secret Str8t Side to the Gay Doppleganger of Same Sex Love? The love that still dares not mention its name.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, Don’t Do It—isn’t that the underlying reason? How the muy macho Male Agenda queered the Revolution?

Can any DADT Executive Order or proud DOMA Proclamation liberate the troubled modern Str8t Male?

Highly doubtful That’s why males need motorcycles to ride close together and pretend it’s all a great adventure riding down some Great Mystery Highway of Life.

A different kind of Motorcycle Diary. If only Che Guevara instead of Fidel Castro—had been the Leader of the Cuban Revolution?

Y Tu Mamá También (2002)

Luisa: You have to make the
clitoris your best friend.
Tenoch: What kind of friend
is always hiding?

A typical three-way love-affair, two guyz and a chick in the middle. Another long drawn-out journey-to-
nowhere-trip, good for bildungsroman buddies and lots of hangovers.

After one nondescript teenage on-the-road intoxicated night, after the boyz get down and dance with each other. Discovering each other’s young lithe male nude bodies, they can be nice to touch and make romance to just as much as chicks.

Especially if one of the guyz is handsome, moody Gael Garcia Bernal…

Only to wake up in the morning with splitting hang-over headaches, their heads throbbing and them feeling like shit. Turning over in the bed and seeing each other, suddenly remembering vaguely doing what they’d done to each other...

Up goes the male defenses, the shocking guilt and shame of kissing. The forbidden blowjobs and new pleasurable butt-fucking. They’re both discovered something last night. The ancient gay secret—that men can love each other too.

Quickly, wanting to forget about such queer romance, stumbling outta bed and outdoors, both of them vomiting and upchucking their brains out. What’s wrong? What’s the MCONDO context here?

Bad Education (2004)

In many ways this film is like another cumly Catholic Confessional Flick, The Crime of Padre Amaro (2002):

Father Amaro: You are more beautiful than the Virgin.
Amelia: [smirks]
Father Amaro: Tell me your sins, child.
Amelia: You already know them. And your sins?

Funny how a str8t mise en scene like in The Crime of Padre Amaro—can shift so easily over into a homosexual one. A gay mise en abyme—involving a priest and two of his students as in Bad Education.

Bad Education gets more & more relevant—the more the Catholic Church and the Boyz Scouts try to cover-up the misprisions of their priests and scoutmasters.

Are the gay priests in Rome and Dublin saying the same thing as Father Manolo, the school principal and Literature teacher in Bad Education? That the boyz are more beautiful than the Virgin?

Thursday, September 15, 2011



A Guy I Know
I’m Not A Gay Magic Realist
Miami Vice
Love, Death, Blood Money
Calamites in the Tea Room
McOndo Lit

A Guy I Know

He has a condo—
He goes to clubs every
Night then comes home.
He’s from Cuba.

His lovers’ pics—
On the dresser floating
Like a boat flotilla
Drifting forever.

I’m Not A Gay Magic Realist

"To write in Latin America
is a drama (whether conscious
or not), played out beneath the
eternal double curse of—
underdevelopment & exoticism."
—Reinaldo Arenas

Reinaldo Arenas—
The fag writer & Cuban exile,
Nailed to the cross by Castro
Murdered by American Aids…

Latino magic realism—
Doubly cursed by poverty &
Narco-exoticism, whores for
Magic-starved Anglo str8ts.

Miami Vice version—
Thick, sweet, humid nights,
Rotten mangos, iguana boyz,
Death tied up in a hammock.

Gimme a fuckin break—
Márquez's imaginary Macondo,
A crummy "McOndo" dump:
McDonald's, cellphones, coke.

Miami Vice

It’s a short text—
Live on TV, amphetamines
McOndo Miami Vice
Bends like the moon.

A pretty boyz smile—
Goes to bed with a gun
Doesn’t trust anybody
Especially gay gringos.

Lorca thru the window—
Moon over Miami
Lummus Park evenings
Ocean Drive condo.

Smokes on balcony—
Stench of gay sex
More like a trashy movie
Rough trade, coke, cum.

Ocean Drive below—
Thighs between thighs
I’m just as bad, twice, three
Times getting him off.

Love, Death, Blood Money

“tyranny of past loves, the
villainy of inconsequential
casual writers, or the rule of
blood money”—Alberto Fuguet,
McOndo Novels, Giving Up the Ghosts

I’m not there anymore—
Not in Miss Garcia Marquez’s
Magic Macondo Tea Room
Anymore, my dear, ho-hum.

“Unavoidable Violences”—
Since Dallas up to Allende
And beyond, for those of us
Born during the 1950s.

Enter new failed writers—
Str8t poets in a kind of literary
Hell, only gay poets and old
Whores can appreciate the times.

Middle class, well educated—
Respectable queens, downwardly
Mobile and short of money,
New versions of Bolaño in drag.

Reinventing the novel—
Only to find out it’s all a fake,
Highly overrated and exaggerated
Something like Herpes on your dick.

It doesn’t really, my dear—
Take a Savage Detective to realize
The continent is rich with Storytellers
Thick as Calamites in a Tea Room.

Calamites in the Tea Room

What remains—
Amidst all this Poverty & Promise
The most Effective Way of Presenting
Unpalatable Naked Truths?

For one thing—
Forget about former Chilean
President Salvador Allende's death,
Everyone else has, my dear.

The lesson gleamed—
From Miss Bolaño's work is that
“The little world of letters is just
As Terrible as it is Ridiculous.”

Naturally, my dears—
We’re all Nobel writers since it
Takes bad poets with uncritical
Tenacity to give it all away.

Exaggerated claims—
Reinvent the novel since obviously
The McOndo Movements have only
One guiding spirit: The Joker.

It’s easy as a piece of cake—
Becoming a Poster Boy for McOndo,
Globetrotting, sex-loving, love-crazy,
Cosmopolitan, apolitical, narcissistic.

All you have to do is—
Ditch all those sepia-tinted notions,
Toss Miss García Márquez in the trash
And snort lots of Columbian cocaine.

Just like with Argentina—
Decades of Military Dictatorship and
Financial Crises simply come & go,
Simply gloss over it like Evita Peron!

Get into the usual addictions—
Drugs certainly & the voluptuousness
Of Language and art, but also Love:
Its unabashed tremors, aftershocks.

Those subterranean wells—
Full of jealousy, disgust and elation,
Let yourself be astonished by just
How far you can sink on your knees.

Have Great Expectations—
Don’t translate anything, just speak
The Evil Twisted Tongue that Speaks
Inside Your Stupid Little Head.

May I suggest simple Delirium—
As an easy compromise to the somewhat
Tiring Chaos, Carnage & Willful Oblivion
That hints too much of Magic Realism?

The hardest part it seems—
Is accepting the stretch between
Madness and sanity and learning
To straddle it in a graceful manner?

It can be exceedingly vexing—
As we descend into this vortex of nasty
Paramilitary attacks, guerrilla strikes,
Kidnappings and bloodshed everywhere.

Yet contemporary McOndo novelists—
Have managed to depict such Urgency
With just the right amount of Kitsch,
Pastiche and Ubiquitous Hypocrisy.

McOndo Lit

“It was a hardcore sci-fi
and fantasy, that’s the
kind of story we’re all
living in. What’s more
sci-fi than the Santo
Domingo? What more
fantasy than the Antilles?
It used to be more popular
in the old days, bigger, so
to speak, in Macondo than
in McOndo.”—Junot Diaz,
The Brief Wondrous Life
of Oscar Wao

The Literature of Lunacy—
It’s worse than the unsavory details
Of what Former Boyfriends do to make
Life miserable for innocent queens like us.

Rather than worn-out old fascist—
Magic Realism, I’ve turned lately in my
Fashionable Discomfort to the Parisian style
Of Sapphic Modernism a la Gertrude Stein.

She’s gracefully fragmented—
And disconcertingly unreliable just as
Miss Márquez is classically omniscient and
Muy macho forcefully dirty & linear.

Surely there’s another way—
Of chronicling disenchantment with the
All-encompassing, drug traffic delirium
Engulfing Mexico & American borders?

Márquez's dissection of Delirium:
Chronicle of a Death Foretold (1981)
About an Honor Killing in a small
Colombian town is notable.

But Jorge Franco’s Rosario Tijeras—
Moves away from magical realist design
Encumbered by just simply a single
Murder, replaced by thousands!

Jettisoning folksy regionalism—
A generational shift with surprising
Directions, but capable of making
Writers to see what was coming?

Not just a world of McDonald’s—
Shopping malls and high-rise condos,
But instead the melancholy ghost malls
And detritus of a Failed Future?

Just as McOndo was the setting—
For One Hundred Years of Solitude,
McOndo is the sly design & paradigm
For an approaching Third World USA.

The shift from rural to urban—
Has already happened… now comes
The shift from Narco-Magic Realism
To McOndo Literature.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Miami Gay Vice

Arturo Tijeras

“Rosario had been shot
at point-blank range”
—Jorge Franco Ramos,
Rosario Tijeras

Arturo gets shot at point-blank range while he’s cuming, confusing the pain of death with that of love. But he realizes something is wrong, when the pain doesn’t stop. Even tho the cuming does…

“I feel something oozing thru my body. I think it’s a kiss,” he says, as he grows weaker in my arms.

Armando gets the fuck outta the apartment, jealousy making him do it? Or is it just the thrill of it, shooting Arturo in the head while making love?

Giving the kid his last good fuck, one he’ll always remember. All the way to the morgue.

So much for those gone fantastic, magic realism dayz of picturesque Banana Republics, mysterious rain-forests, Latino literary landscapes of the 1970s.

So much for Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s cheesy folksy village defined by all the long gone Borges boyz. The new literary style is cheesy condo lit, a takeoff on the words “McDonald’s, Macintosh and condo.”

So much for tropical, exotic Nowhereville, the Fuguet boyz are in town now. Urban trash, urban legends, urban sex & violence, the easily recognizable pop-entrenched downtown, dirty, polluted, crowded, throbbing with sex, drugs, money and death is here.

“Arturo Tijeras” simply oozes with McOndianesque shocking, provocative, unsavory, cheesy details. Just the thing to make Charles Bukowski cream in his kimono: fucking a corpse in a condo, peeing on a former rival hustler’s face, scenes of mass masturbation at Ocean Drive, Miami nightclubs.

Raymona Chandler would be aghast tho, such moody displays of miserable Miami Noir even worse than yesterday’s tacky TV episodes of unsavory Miami Vice.

So many hopes pegged on the Jorge Franco generation, to come up with a whole new slant on the same old worn-out, crummy, magic acts of Garcia Marquez and Company.

Armando Tijeras

“I feel [that] the great literary
theme of ‘Latin American identity’
(who are we?) must now take a
back seat to the theme of
‘personal identity’ (who am I?).”
—Alberto Fuguet

How am I supposed to know the two boyz are the Tijeras brothers? Well, half-brothers anyway. They have the same Mexico City mother, but different fathers.

I can’t help it, I’m in love with both of them. Arturo and Armando. Armando and Arturo. Let me count the ways, I mean, let me count the inches.

Arturo had 12 inches, Armando had 7. There’s some seething sibling rivalry going on between them, Arturo the younger one and Armando the older stud.

Probably lots of penis envy too, I know I have it bad for Arturo too. Arturo is like magic realism, he comes from some other banana republic world.

But Armando is McOndos, the gritty urban Miami crime scene means everything to him. Coke and power is everything, that’s how he gets the pink Cadillac.

"Arturo Tijeras" is set in the new Medellín Miami of the McOndos youth, the Medellín of 2012 when drug lords like Pablo Escobar rule the planet. They control the Redneck Riviera and its zombies through violence. When people die in the book it is not because of beautiful, biblical butterfly plagues, but because of acts of street crime of narco-terror.

There are dozens of murders a day, but the Escobar gangs are still raking in more than a million dollars a day from cocaine shipments to Miami. Teenage killers like Arturo and Armando, get paid in pocket money for every competitor killed, dipping their bullets in cum before going to work.

The novel, adapted as a Spanish-language film this year, is another cheesy contribution to McOndo realism, to Miami Noir literature, but also to the female action hero genre. One thinks of "La Femme Nikita" especially, watching all the gun-toting, crack-snorting junkie badgirlz strutting their glamorous urban wild pussies on the street, sexualizing female domination. Arturo, like most femmes fatales in the genre, functions less as a beacon of strength than as a construction of male erotic fantasy.

Gender politics gets blurred somewhere between the demise of magic realism and the sexual power, new reigning lower class whores trafficking with narcotics as the means of rising. Arturo and Armando once belonging to the "decent" upper class, battered and bribed by the drug wars into submission.

The same with me, destroyed, diminished, dragged down and brutalized by my addictive love for Arturo and Armando. Their seductive, toxic, druglike love easily an allegory for the process by which the Miami upper class loses control of its once dear domains.

With me it began the same year García Márquez's "One Hundred Years of Solitude" was published, my dayz of magic realsim already dead. The new unmentionalbe axis around which Miami moves is how the novel addresses the political implications of this story subtly, its primary goal a realistic depiction of the city, and whatever such a representation suggests or implies which is incidental.

The only place I get heavy-handed is in with my somewhat gay persistent reiteration of Arturo's deadliness. "Breath rhymes with death," Arturo exclaims ... this from a kid whose "kisses taste like death," who fires bullets at people immediately after making out with them and who is finally shot while embraced in a kiss.

For me it’s crucial that the gay sexuality and chronic violence that corrodes Miami be reflected in literary form, and ultimately what allows me to personify it is Arturo’s intimacy with death, his fearlessness in the face of it.

Arturo’s brother, an infamous drug lord now, drops by my apartment in The Carlyle sometimes. We play the music he liked, we get drunk, we get high, we even make love. He camouflages his guilt by bouquets of flowers, depicting all the street crimes, bar brawls, police brutality and poverty they both went thru.

But all that’s just fake, ersatz, hustler jive—supposed disillusionment and anger. Just as grotesque and fantastical as his supposed literary forefathers the magical ones.

Armando’s fake magical realism is just another form premised upon nostalgia for a premodern Miami that’s passed and gone. What kind of literary style can possibly acknowledge the presence of such a vulgar modernity?

How to depict an unrecognizable society shaped and permeated by pop culture, mass media, urban growth and the forces and influence of blood-cold globalization?

It would take an impossible Escape from the present reality that is, for many of us absent of enchantment and magic. A realistic Miami novel would be like what?

A fictional "disenchantment with the world"?

An exile from magical realism—into what kind of different genre of realism? One that deals with gay Miami Beach disillusionment?

The look on Armando’s face—when I do to him what he did to his kid brother. Making love in The Carlyle Penthouse—pulling the trigger as Armando cums?

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

The Carlyle

The Carlyle

I know it sounds silly, but I can only make it—a few blocks up Ocean Drive up from the Avalon. The closer we get to The Carlyle Hotel, the more faint and weak I become.

The Carlyle is after all the quintessential gay art deco temple for me, since that’s where The Birdcage is filmed. That’s where Armando takes us, the three of us for a stay.

Over the years, Miami Beach has served as the backdrop for hundreds of Hollywood movies. Mike Nichol's 1996 The Birdcage version filmed in Ocean Drive’s The Carlyle is the Americanized camp remake of the 1978 French comedy La Cage Aux Folles.

And so, as we make our way from The Avalon (800 Ocean Drive) to The Carlyle (1250 Ocean Drive), I feel this exquisite sweep of something overcoming me. The surge of the ocean, a Lost Weekend?

A sweep of quintessential queerness is coming off the ocean, over the beach and thru Lummus Park. It’s encompassing me in our swank pink Cadillac convertible, me with two young Cuban gangsters.

It was simply too much for me. I was just an amateur, a novice art deco connoisseur who could only take so much. I was simply devastated by all the South Beach sophistication, all the lurid decadence and stylish extravagance.

So I had Armando pull over and the three of us stayed overnight at The Carlyle Hotel… A three-way with a couple of cute Cuban chicken, talk about a birdcage romance, honey, all night long.

The Birdcage

“The Birdcage” isn’t just a movie, it’s a Miami Mala Noche love story come true. A quintessential gay film cuming outta my ears, a queer quintessential snapshot of that lovely weekend I spent there on South Beach.

My Birdcage version is less campy, less hysterical than the 1978 French comedy La Cage Aux Folles. Even the Mike Nichol 1996 Birdcage version filmed in Ocean Drive’s The Carlyle is a bit too outré for me, the constantly contrived “drag” coming on a bit too burlesque and cabaret.

Birdcage set mostly in the house of Armand and Albert, sitting over their night club which is actually the Carlyle Hotel at 1250 Ocean Drive. Many films claim to be Miami, but this film is Miami. Filmed with many outside shots like bus-stops, all quite recognizable.


The kid’s name is Arturo, perhaps his parents in Cuba know. Probably his mother knowing instinctively, that Arturo’s hung like his father.

Hung like a bull in the bullring, done in by the cheering crowds and the young fearless matador. Isn’t that the way it happens in Hollywood, with some handsome actor like Tyrone Power?

Arturo breaks my heart, the first time I get him off. There in bed that night at the Carlyle Hotel, dying so muy macho and savagely in my arms.

The second time hurts him bad, but I suffer even worse. I sprain my greedy neck, making a pig outta myself. Because it lasts such a long time, and I desperately want each Blatino squirt.

Cuban Jail Bait

Armando’s pleased, leaning back in bed and nodding. He smokes a fat joint, watching the online porno movie.

He’s pleased with himself, for being such a pimp. Such a good chauffeur and all-around-Excelente hustler. For a gringo sugar daddy, who’s willing to pay.

The ocean breeze comes thru the sliding door, thru the Carlyle Hotel balcony. The art deco “eyebrows” shade the interiors by day, by night they’re raised in moody anticipation of the lurid night.

We’re up on the top floor, Lummus Park calls invitingly. So does Ocean Drive bumper to bumper with cruising traffic, while the Moon over Miami cruises down at the long Lost Weekend sordid affair.

I fall asleep, simply exhausted by all the cocksucking. Armando and Arturo sneak out, they know some chicks with some coke. Just waiting for them, now’s their turn to be muy macho men.

Tour of Ocean Drive


Armando Takes Me on a Tour
Of Ocean Drive Miami Beach

Sensing my boredom and that I was on the verge of dismissing him, Armando suggested we get a rental and he’d take me on a guided tour of Ocean Drive with him being my personal chauffeur…and guide.

He picked a swanky baby-assed pink Cadillac convertible to tool around in, a classic ’59 wreck with gauche lurid fins erect in the back and enough chrome on the grill in front to sink a battleship.

I sat next to my young Cuban hotshot, my trembling hand on his knee, shivering in wonder as we slowly drove up Ocean Drive with all its simply gorgeous art deco temples so exquisitely gay and moderné.

I started taking cellphone pics with the classic Avalon Hotel at 800 Ocean Drive…and sure enough there was a classic Thunderbird convertible parked in front just like the pics on the internet. It was a beautiful afternoon, as we cruised slowly past The Colony and The Starlite Hotels.

And then Viola! My first chicken hustler of the day. Standing there shirtless in the middle of the street, showing off what he had to all the tourists going by. I opened the door and he got inside.

The kid sat in between me and Armando, what a sexy way to take a leisurely Miami Beach tour. With two young studs as my cute Heurtebise guides…

And me in a decadent pink Cadillac cruising Ocean Drive Art Deco Heaven!!! Honey, I thought I’d die…

Ocean Drive Badboy

Ocean Drive Badboy

“Man, you don’t look so hot.”

I look up at the kid, his slanted beady eyes and pearly-white shark teeth. What a Miami Beach badboy he is, this cute Cuban hustler in my boat.

I look at his face and then down at his skimpy pink swimming suit, his troublesome eight-armed struggling octopus all wrapped up tight inside it.

These little fat grey-green slimy tentacle tips wiggling, squeezing outta the suit, between the nylon and his tanned skin, stretching down his legs.

Young Shark guyz suck the breath right outta me, that’s the feeling I get in the back of the boat. I’m coming back to life again, feeling inhuman again.

I must’ve fainted probably, too much underwater sex and games. I finger my way up his leg under the tight edge of his pink Speedo shorts.

“Gimme some more,” I say to him.

“Huh, perv? Some more what?” He plays it dumb.

“You know, some more of the good stuff, kid. Some more artificial respiration on your barracuda…with my faggy lips.”

“Uh-huh,” Armando says, smirking at me.

The last thing I remember is me choking it to death underwater. Going down on Armando. Getting strangled by it. I must’ve blacked out or something.

“This is what you mean?” he says.

Armando leans back against the Bayliner backseat, slipping his trunks down. Waves are flopping against the boat. It’s a lazy afternoon. Riding the waves along Ocean Drive, tourists gawking at the deco.

Sprong!!! The kid’s flat skanky electric eel flips up like a spring. Outta his tight swimming suit and goes ka-flap! Up against this hard stomach, up past his bellybutton with a quick snap.

“Go ahead, do my mama red snapper. Make it shoot!” Pretty soon he’s gonna need some more coke and start whining about pussy bad. But right now, a quickie blowjob will just have to do.

Getting Shark off gets old pretty fast. I’m already getting bored with it. After all it’s been since Saturday night. Str8ts can be boring after awhile, all they’re good for is coke and pussy.

But str8t sex can be addictive. It’s worth it I suppose, for an intense minute or two. I like it stupid and spaz, goin cross-eyed on me. When they stick to going all dick, and shut the fuck up.

It’s always on Armando’s mind tho. He’s hopelessly hetero. He thinks about it constantly. Choking some chick to death, his flat uncut Cuban cock doing its thing.

Stuffing it all the way down a bug-eyed chick’s bulging throat. Cum cuming outta her nose. That’s why Armando closes his eyes, calls me some chick’s name when he’s fuckin my dirty whiteboy mouth.

Sounds bad? It gets worse, especially with a mulatto ten-inch fat thick Cuban snake. Vulgar ones turn me on a lot, Armando’s a hot rude rough trade trick.

He pulls my hair tight, I swear to gawd I see stars. When I give him head, it’s real slutty pussy he fucks. That’s what I want, that’s what I need.

I need a young guy who fucks my head like pussy, corkscrewing his middle-fingers into my ears, deeper & deeper inside my fuckin brain.

Monday, September 12, 2011

The Shark

The Shark

The huge red shark swims in the crystal-clear water. Adrenaline shoots thru it. It has a pair of legs, some knees, strong arms pulling it thru the ocean.

He stretches it out just for me, like it was a spear gun ready to shoot a barbed harpoon up my ass. Or down by rubbery oyster lips.

I get him onboard the cabin cruiser, he shish-kebabs me to a dead stop. His threatening fin slides erotically sideways, ten inches down past my tonsils.

He lets it all out, both all the air in his lungs and all the octopus sushi oozing down my fucking throat. He bends forward, going spaz on the bottom of the boat. He can’t help it.

Finally I slip my finger, into his tense tight asshole. For a second he’s suspended in time, the whites of his eyes are all I can see. A shark’s lidless eyes…

I’m stuck on him bad, I forget about everything else. My mouth full of his Jell-O jizz-thick cum, it’s overpoweringly awful and yet exquisite tasting.

Then I feel the electric current, it’s bright and coming closer and closer. The cum makes him dizzy, my lips get puffy and pouty. I lose it…

I close my eyes, it’s salty like snot. Ever sucked a guy’s runny snotty nose? Stared in another guy’s eyes, some str8t kid who’s amazed by your cocksucking nerves. Smirking at you?

That’s the way I feel. Around Armando. A clammy panic shoots thru him, like Armando was a sleek, muscular shark. He makes me tremble and wanna do dirty things even more than usual.

But I can’t stop. Armando grabs me, bites me hard for a long time on my neck. I can feel the shark’s teeth sink deeper, jizzy & sharp. As I let Armando have me, making me take his oozing slimy cum.

I feel like vomiting, staring at Shark’s mean eyes. Armando throws me on my stomach, can I survive another hot Cuban fuck? I feel his sneaky K-Y finger up my ass, Armando sticks his tongue down my ear.

That’s when I usually lose it. The salt smell, the cum taste, it makes him wanna faint. I breathe. That’s the important thing. I breathe to survive.

Shark grabs my face, turns it around. Forces my eyes open, so I can see Armando’s face. Smell his sweat and piss and rum and cum, knowing I’m just a whore with dried blood and coke up my nose.

My eyes begin to unfocus, I can’t feel my body anymore. Not even my hairless, fleshy foreskin pierced twice, my nipples pierced & swollen erect.

Armando squeezes the last bit outta him, shudders, spits on the floor. The boat turns into a hotel room, scummy goo coats my tongue like slimy boiled okra.

Armando leans back in bed, smoking a cigarette. Even his dirt, spit & cum turns me on. He doesn’t take a bath, the first thing I get is the Cuban kid’s awful-tasting smegma.


Moon Over Miami

Miami Trash

Miami Trash is different than Miami Vice.

Forget the glam and deco glamour stuff. I heard rumors about South Beach being hot Cuban Boyz City, but, well, by the time the ‘80s had burned out, Miami was just a maudlin Mausoleum full of fags with lotsa varicose veins.

The sherbet-pink chic and tan stucco decay outta the ‘30s had oozed right into the next crummy century, so that by 2012 all the gay flamingo boyz had gone to the Elephant Graveyard.

The tender hustlers and cute male prostitutes were long gone too, along with all the Cuban chicken queen hangers-on. Miss Real Estate was Queen of Miami once again, art deco condos had replaced all the charming redone deco hotels.

Seedy middleclass shabby fags and glamour queens from the Big Apple, had replaced all the old queer baby boomer deco queens. Now there was just the usual masked bourgeois gangsters, christened with tattoos, flexing their built bodies outta the gym for each other...

Self-love, designer food chains, flaunting their lurid-abs at each other. Like so many of the Fire Island and former P-Town beach crowd, it had been a slippery slope down to what had become slimy South Beach hell.

Jesus Gets a Blow Job

The cute Cuban kid was 18, but that wasn’t good enough. I wanted him innocent all the way, as innocent as Fidel Castro was back when he was a chicken in Havana.

Fifi Castro as Reinaldo Arenas called him, the cute young dictator getting sucked off by Batista and the Mafioso boyz, gringo gangsters who ran the whore houses, bookie joints and gambling casinos.

“Bad boy,” I said to him. His name was Jesus Armando. “Just look how much you’ve grown. At least an inch or so. But first you’ve gonna be chicken again, baby. So spread 'em for Big Daddy...”

So I'd get out the Norelco and shave his teenage pubes. Viola, he was a Twink again. Worthy of my filthy rich divine lips. He was worth a thousand, but I only gave him a hundred. He was my chicken chauffeur too.

“Oh, Jesus!!! Gimme that big fuckin' enchilada, baby!!!”

A year had gone by since Castro had amazingly apologized for ditching all the fags, dumping them all on the boatlift exiled to Florida. Putting the rest into work-camps and prisons, what a waste. What a fuckin Cuban closet case.

I apologized to the Cuban kid too, hot Havana boyz really turned me on. I'd get carried away sometimes, a little too arriba. But Armando just sneered at me as he left, for giving him a lurid hickey on his haughty Havana swollen uncut dickhead.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

baby Boy IV


Baby Boy and his two friends Joe Bob and Billy Bob from town.

(Joe Bob and Billy Bob are hanging around Archie Lee’s back porch with nothing else to do. They can’t sleep after all the excitement back in town last night. Mister Silva’s big party with booze and music, as well as all the Big Wig politicians givin speeches and schmoozing with the local Rubes for votes and bucks. But then Somebody torches Silva’s gin mill, the biggest one in the county with Silva the Sicilian as the Mafioso Big Daddy.
Everybody knows it's Archie Lee, cause Archie Lee had gone bankrupt with Silva’s total Takeover of all the gin mills and now Silva had a Mississippi monopoly all the way to Biloxi. So Joe Boby and Billy Bob are getting together with Baby Boy to share some secrets as usual. They like to gossip about all the Big Shots like Archie the Big Mouth and Silva the Sicilian Hoodlum. And like all truant juvenile delinquent young Delta troublemakers, they wanna be in on the action. They’ve never seen such a big fire as the one that burns down Silva’s Gin Mill. It's the Talk of the town, but lots of the gin owners like what Archie did. Lots of resentment moiling around town, you can feel it in the air. Nobody's talkin abou nothin, neither whites, nor blacks, nor dinge queens or white trash. Everybody's sittin back, waitin for whatever's gonna happen next. The afternoon is humid, there aint nothin to do, except the usual Thing. Gettin down on the Back Porch, Baby Boy joining Joe Bob and Billy Bob like they usually do on hot day.)

Baby Boy: Okay, you guyz, you can stop playin with yourselves. I'm here now, so we can get down to some serious business. Like where's the weed?

(The boyz smirk amongst themselves. It’s all they do when they get together. Getting stoned and jackin each other off. Nobody masturbates as much as bored Mississippi boyz, cause that's all there is to do. No girlz would put up with them, especially white girlz. Not even the Trailer Trash girlz out by the Truck Stop would stoop to be with Baby Boy, Joe Bob or Billy Bob. These three are the bottom of the barrel, broke and nothin to show for it. So they all have plenty of time on their hands to mess around and get stoned. What else is there to do on such long languid humid honeysuckle afternoons and bored badboy magnolia mandingo kid evenings?

So they're into what most truant lazy adolescent Southern Boyz do when bored with Deep South boredom and cumly youngmale Plentitude. Joe Bob and and Billy Bog are Twin Dinge Angels, just perfect for Delta teenage skullduggery and givin head. The girlz aren’t any fun, they faint whenever the word "Fellatio" comes up in whispered hallway conversations. And when it comes to gettin intimate with thick sluggish turgid Ole Man River when its flowin thru Pretty Boy limbs and lips, well, there's really nothin you can do about it except what the Three Young Thugs do with each other. It's old as the levee and plantation sin, you can feel it flowin deep inside your bones if you give it a chance. Let it flow baby, let it flow. It flows nice and easy, like some decadent overly-knowing Mississippi Queen riverboat boy who knows how to get down, who's been there and back, all the way from Big Easy Mardi Gras up to Memphis Miss Reba's Whore House ladies of the night and Popeye's gangster limo chauffeur Alabama Red gettin it on with Temple Drake upstairs bangin her all night long. Alabama Red's hung and hot, with Popeye hangin onto the brass bed, buck-nekkid and howlin at the moon. That's not what Baby Boy likes to do though, his proud Creole cock has a much more proud and uppity history, going back all the way to the War of 1812 and Big Easy Mardi Gras dayz. His proud jet-black Creole heritage lying down between his long lanky legs, full of French, Spanish, Mulatto Badboy Pretty Boy Baby Boy Creole Style and Negritude Genealogy...his nice pretty Creole cock with so much of the Fine History and exquisite Legacy of Louisiana's Free People of Color...

Billy Bob: Well, Lordy, Lordy. My oh my, just look what walked in. It be none other than our cousin Baby Boy Blue. The Whitey Kept Boy of this Dumpy Plantation Mansion. Just look at you, Baby Boy. You sure be Black for a White boy, you know that Baby Boy? You're more hung than than me or Billy Joe, my Twin Brother!!!

(Baby Boy is lounging there on the swing, leaning back there on the dumpy verandah, with his lavender kimono half-hanging open, letting his huge gnarly veiny Pascagoula penis hang out there, so proud and erect. He takes another toke, then passes the huge joint to Joe Bob.)

Joe Boy: Man oh Man, alive. If only those Yoknapatawpha Queens over there at the University Faculty Club could get a gander at that piece of Mississippi Meat of yours, Baby Doll. You'd have Tenure right away with them know-it-all Big Shots.

Baby Doll: Yeah, I know. Especially if they only knew I was a Kept Boy over there in Rowan Oaks for for a couple of years. I had had my own Big Daddy over there, he knew how to treat a Lover Boy like royalty. But that’s cause I be a local Mississippi mulatto boy. I may be high yellow above the waist… but down below I’m a black-assed Mandingo man, you betcha Billy Bob.

Billy Bob: Whatever you is, you be a dirty White Boy that’s for sure. I don't believe a word you say about Rowan Oaks or any of that high-fallutin stuff. You can't even read a comic book, you're such a dumb White Boy. I’ve known a lotta white trash boyz back in town, but I tell you, Baby Boy. None of em got a big old mean-lookin piece of Congo Cobra Meat like yours that's for sure, man. Peal that head back a little bit, I wanna give ya some head.

(Baby Boy shrugs, closes his eyes and pulls back his jet-black satin foreskin. Out slides a pretty pink swollen head, the size of a deep-dark purplish-pink plum all ready to do its nasty thing.)

Baby Boy: Go ahead and suck it , Billy Bob. It’s been awhile dontchaknow. And I can use some good head around now. That stupid fucker Archie Lee, he’s been all hot and bothered about my bod again. He just won’t leave me alone, he’s the worst goddamn sugar daddy a guy could ever have.

(Joe Bob and Billy Bob smirk knowingly. Then Billy Bob gets down to work, slurping away at the dirty white boy’s magnificent piece of young whitey Creole Negroid heaven. How could anything so young and innocent-looking, end up growing so big and tall like a field of sugar cane thick and shiny in the delta moonlight, growing so thick and juicy outta that tiny twisted kinky little triagle of pubes, how can a White Boy own such a shameless huge piece of young beautiful Negritude? A seeminly whiter-than-white almost albino-tinted dirty white boy like Baby Boy McCorkle upstairs? But all that Creole Proud Legacy down in the bargain basement, Voodoo Hoodoo Creole Snake Boy slithering down outta the kimono? Billy Joe just nodded in agreement, waiting his turn patiently while polishing his own knob slowly and luxuriously in the languid humid Mississippi afternoon.)

Baby Boy: There’s one thing I don’t understand tho, Billy Joe and Billy Bob. When they catch dummie loud-mouth poor Archie Lee for torching Silva’s gin mill and put him in jail, like who’s gonna take care of me then anyway? This dumpy old mansion, Archie’s old gin mill, the worn-out land down around here, all the retired black folks hanging around… all of us will just have to just get up gettin by somewhere else I guess.

Billy Joe: That’s okay, Baby Boy. You can come live with us and Uncle Moses back down by the river outside of town. We got plenty of room in our old dumpy sharecropper’s shack down by the tracks. You can sleep with me and Billy Bob like all of us together, then we can go fishing and fuckin around all we want in the afternoons down by the Yazoo River…

Baby Boy: Oh, man!!! Oh, man oh man!!! Okay, Billy Bob… I can’t hold it much longer, oh Lordy, Lordy... here it comes!!! Take it, baby. It’s all yours, I got a pint down there I betcha…

(Billy Bob can’t take all of it, all 12 inches of Baby Boy’s big fire-hose meat. Baby Boy tries to get it all the way down the Billy Bob's throat anyway, grabbing and manhandling Billy Bob's ears like a pair of handlebars on one of those BMW or Harley hog motorcycles. Billy Bob be choking to death, gagging and struggling with all the gushing spaz spermazoidal spew of Baby Boy’s thick runny serpentine spluge. It aint pretty. Baby Boy squeezes his eyes closed tight, flexing his hips and arching his head back up against the rotting bougainvillea-twisting leaning porch, the swing banging against the wall.

Only to be caught and cradled in the gentle strong hands of Silva the manly Mafioso mobster bending down over them. Silva holds Baby Boy’s head tightly like in a vise, bending down and French kissing the kid with his long Sicilian snake-like tongue. It’s more than Baby Boy can stand—the kid faints and then faints some more, getting sucked off down below and French kissed up above.

Baby Boy loses it completely, not even guessing what was in store for him. What nefarious plans Silva has for Baby Boy, using the kid for bait and then getting revenge with Archie Lee for the dirty deed of burning down his lucrative new gin mill and the new King Kotton Business of the whole county. Silva waits a little bit until the kid's over-sensitive, teenage tremors and shameful shudderings come to an exhausting ending, then he scoops up Baby Boy in his arms and carries him back into the house, up the creaky old stairs and then back to Baby Boy's bed upstairs.)

Silva: C’mon kid, you done haven't shot your biggest mother lode yet. I've got plans for you Baby Boy. But like now you need a little rest before the next time comes around. And then I’m swoop you outta this dumpy old mansion of Archie's, and I'm gonna show you how to be a Real Kept Boy. I'll take you back to my place, that's where my little Baby Doll belongs. I'm gonna get you a brand new Baby Cradle just for you, a really nice ritzy one with silk sheets and what you deserve. And then my little Honey-Pie Baby Boy… You're gonna tell me all about Archie and how he burned down my gin mill back in town. Hush now, we'll talk about it later. Pretty Boy...

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Miami Beach Art Deco

Miami Beach Art Deco Theaters

Déjà vu seemed to—
Kinda ooze & bleed slowly
Into Miami Beach South.

The sleek skyscrapers—
Chrysler & Empire State Bldg.
Zooming up high into Sky.

But down South—
Art Deco back then went low
Stylish Hollywood Fag moderne.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Purple Egypt

Alain Delon in Tutankhamun drag

Purple Egypt

“Forever, Tom thought.
Maybe he’d never go back
to the States. It was not
so much Europe itself as
the evenings he had spent
alone, here and in Rome,
that made him feel that
way.”—Patricia Highsmith,
The Talented Mr. Ripley

Evenings by himself simply looking at Giza maps, or lying around on sofas thumbing thru Nile guidebooks.

Evenings looking at Tut’s clothes—his clothes and Tut’s—feeling Tut’s rings between his fingers.

Running his hands over the antelope suitcase that Gucci’s had given him. He’d polished the suitcase with a special Egyptian dressing, not that it needed polishing...

But he liked the feel of the leather, the svelte smoothness reminding him for some reason of his youth back in the imperial precincts of the royal palace.

The talented Mr. Tut loved possessions, not lots of them, but a select few that he kept around him. They gave an ex-king self respect. Not déjà vu ostentation but quality, and the love that cherished such quality.

Art deco possessions, especially jewelry, reminded him that he once existed, and made him enjoy his new existence even more.

It was as simple as that. It really wasn’t even worth saying it. He simply existed. Not many people in the world could say they were once young pharaohs.

Resurrected thru the miracles of modern science and advanced esoteric stem-cell research. It was after all promised to him. Predicted by the temple priests and expected of him.

Sealed away in his royal coffin with all the necessary Egyptian imperial equipage to make the transition possible… Then Viola!!!

First Carter and the art deco revolution. Up went the magnificent Empire State and Chrysler Building skyscrapers, as ancient Egyptian style slowly began bleeding into the Thirties.

He existed. Not many people in New York City knew how to, even if they were wealthy and famous. It took style, and a certain amount of poise. To be Tut.

But then the talented Mr. Tut was used to it, after all pharaohs are trained in the art of being prima donnas. They attract like others that way too, the born-again elite cognoscenti.

That’s why he haunted Miami Beach. It wasn’t just all the pastel pinks and mauves—or the hunky boyz of Miami Vice. It was something else…

Even tho art deco looked ultra-modern, it dated back to the days of Egyptian tombs. The discovery of King Tut's tomb in the 1920's had opened the door to this enticing art deco style.

The stark lines, bold colors and zig-zag architectural features were added to objects placed in the tomb to entertain and enlighten me during my long sleep. Even young sleeping kings get bored dontchaknow.

Art deco appealed to Americans, who were going thru the "roaring 20's" and loved the eclectic look. They saw it as a symbol of decadence and extravagance, qualities their generation embraced.

Art, architecture, jewelry and fashion were all heavily influenced by art deco bold colors and the sharp lines of the movement. Miami Beach was like being back home.

Art deco was the gift of the pharaohs to the Enfants Terrible of the Future. So that in 1910 John Collins and Carl Fisher undertook the daunting task of transforming the island now known as Miami Beach from a mangrove swamp to a tourist destination.

By the time the coastal hotspot Ocean Drive was born, the art deco movement was in full swing. Anyone who was anyone wanted to spend their vacation in the high life of art deco surroundings.

Voila!! Miami Beach was not only born, but was born to be the place to see and be seen! It has enjoyed this popularity since its inception, and is proving to stand the test of time as year after year people come from all over to enjoy this gift of the pharaohs, art deco.

The new MiMo Miami Moderne art deco style with its sleek, streamlined forms conveyed a new elegance and sophistication. It went far beyond the age of the original art deco Flapper, Jazz and Machine Age style.

MiMo went beyond the usual rubies, gold, and pearls as well as plastic, chrome, platinum and steel. Titanium was the new luxury metal used with opaque stones like coral, jade, onyx and lapis lazuli.

Costume jewelry became even more popular with new outrageous e-diamond nose-rings and trend-setting i-cock-phone-rings.

MiMo couturiers went beyond Coco Chanel and Elsa Schiaparelli. Influences were nouveau Pharaonic Egypt, Fukushima Mutant Orient, Leopard Woman Africa rather than the same old usual Cubism, Futurism, ho-hum Euro-graphic design.

Zigzagging into all styles and architectures, oozing into the Purple Noon of the twentieth century—like some secret young stealthy Patricia Highsmith imposter sliding into the new identity of a young American playboy waiting to be reborn a new King Tut kid…

The talented Mr. Tut enjoyed such MiMo moments, having been on the underground highway beneath the pyramids for so long.

His Cairo Bank inheritances gave him a certain amount of security, giving him the leisure to see Greece, collect Etruscan pottery, live in Rome a la Tennessee Williams’ quaint play and novel, The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone.

He was reading Malraux’s Pschyologie de l’Art or rather it was reading itself to him, thanks to his Nook, Kipple, i-Pad E-book clone there in bed with him. It also gave excellent massages and blowjobs.

He sat back against some pillows, smoking a joint. His e-book had done him rather nicely once again, another fascinating chapter in how to be a chic cosmopolitan MiMo moderné fag.

It was strange to read about the people he knew in Thebes and Luxor, the kings and queens, the newt-brained eunuch priests who tried to stow themselves away the day he sailed from Egypt into the future.

It was strange and not at all attractive. What a dismal life most Egyptians had lived, creeping around Cairo. In and out of tombs, standing in some dingy temple by the Nile, watching slaves get whipped for entertainment or even worse.

At least the slave masses had Madison Avenue bars, maybe a decent restaurant now and then. Friendly, cheesy waiters bringing them the best wines in the world. Gondola rides, girls. All the usual str8t perks and Delilah delights.

Occasionally, he’d get letters and fan male from dopes who sounded more like criminal types. But so far his bodyguards kept away the outsiders, with him not anticipating any freedom in that direction very much.

He looked up at the bright Miami moon, he felt suddenly queasy. He’d get these phantom flashbacks of the vats, floating in the stinking embalming fluids of ancient Luxor labs.

Not much different from the stem-cell clone-vat labs of today’s genetic scientists, growing the latest Sea Bee droids and Predator Nexus drones of the Robot Army Future.

Made Up Dreams

Made Up Dreams (2008)
Mentiras piadosas

How does the Cuban community in Miami deal with homosexuality now? Better than Castro did who exiled all of them out of the country?

Were gay Cuban writers like Reinaldo Arenas discriminated against by fellow Latinos in Miami and NYC after Castro’s Revolution?

Such intra-racial prejudice is nothing new; it still exists within the Black communities today, even during the Harlem Renaissance.

GLBT discrimination is just as much or even more intense within the Anglo-community with DOMA, DADT and ENDA seemingly always in the headlines.

So it’s with a certain amount of interest that I see the Argentine director Diego Sabanés’ film “Mentiras piadosas” (Made Up Dreams) (2008) has been chosen for today’s scheduled film at the classic art deco Tower Theater in the Miami Dade College Events Calendar.

According to the online blurb, Made Up Dreams is a Comedy/Drama from Argentina, 2009. 35 mm. 100 min. Spanish with English subtitles.

When Jorge and Nora’s brother Pablo vanishes in Paris, they make up stories about his adventures to tell their mother in order to protect their world of childish illusion, even at the cost of their personal desires.

As they do so, their home is gradually dismantled to maintain a Buñuel-like dream that turns later into a ghost story, similar to The Exterminating Angel, El ángel exterminador (1962).

Is there anything that would help us ascertain whether this film has any gay elements to it? How much of the story is real and how much just made-up and imaginary? Imaginary for who and for what purpose? The family, the brother and sister…or perhaps the supposed gay brother Jorge?

Is Jorge telling Patricia the truth about having received all those letters from Pablo? What about Pablo's violin teacher? It seems odd that none of his students or colleagues would miss him if he disappeared; it would make sense for them to contact Pablo's family.

It seems that the point of the narrative is to explore the family's entanglement in this fictional epistolary reality but it seems even more possible that Jorge invents Pablo as his gay double and thus avoids any family problems involving his queer lifestyle.

For example, there’s the first pic from the video clip above, the one showing Jorge gazing at himself in the mirror. The pose and style is somewhat reminiscent of Oscar Wilde’s story, “The Portrait of Dorian Gray.” Jorge seems to be pondering his Other, much as Dorian Gray did in his closety attic.

And then, there’s the second pic with Patricia posing the question of Pablo as Double, gay Other, mysterious Doppleganger in their little made-up game who Jorge seems to have forgotten or grown out of or no longer is in love with?

Patricia’s question “Did you find another man?” also has its affinities with the somewhat incestuous relationship between Elisabeth and Paul in Jean Cocteau’s Les Enfants terribles (1950). The third party of the ménage a trois being Dargelos very much like Pablo in Made Up Dreams.

And so tonight I wish I were there in that classic Miami art deco movie theater, the Tower Theater. It has a long history in regard to the Cuban exile community as well as to the Exile who dares not mention his name…