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?

No comments:

Post a Comment