Friday, June 22, 2012

Call Me Miss Perverse

At a Wilde Boys reading
Fashion & Style: New York Times
November 2, 2011


Call Me Miss Perverse

“how gay culture continues
to perform a sly and profound
critique of what passes for normal”
—David M. Halperin, “Normal as Folk,”
The New York Times 6/21/2012

Call me Miss Perverse—but it’s the gossip queens and the bitch queens with their cat-fights over Miss Dimitrov & the Wilde Boyz that totally fascinates me.

It’s one thing to read Miss Halperin the Queer Theory queen with her astute Gay Pride remarks in today's New York Times about gay style—and another totally nitty-gritty thing like seeing gay bitch style in action like with the “Beauty” commentary thread about Miss Dimitrov in the Lambda Book Review.

Have I been slumming with National Enquirer too long—have I been browsing The Stranger & Miss Savage too much? Am I just a bored dilettante enamored with jealous poetry queens at each other’s throats?

Who wouldn’t want to get a write-up & promo in the Style and Fashion Section of the New York Times?

Who wouldn’t want some stylish gossip here & there about doing a gay moderné salon full of a coterie of cute young gay Wilde boyz doing their Lady Windermere Thing?

Who wouldn’t want to be tres chic & intellectual attending a reading with the latest new avant garde Poet—and do a little tricking on the side?

Honey, sex sells—just ask Miss Rimbaud & poor slobbering suffering sugar daddy Miss Verlaine.

Just ask poor Miss Oscar Wilde—getting the water-board treatment for being outta the closet a tinse too early there in Miss Britannia.

For heaven’s sake—now in this enlightened twenty-first century just take a jaundiced ogling eyeball look at how far we’ve come.

A dyke Poet Laureate in America and Jolly Old England—and god knows how many raving queer poets outta the closet since Miss Ginsberg fell in love with butchy Neil Cassidy & started her “Howl” rant that never did stop, my dears.

Of course, we’re much more sophisticated now with this Gay Pride Month of June 2012 swishing right along. We’ve got lots more Queer Theory White Trash intellectuals to help us gird our loins.

We’ve done got rid of DADT—now we can join the Roman Legion for its latest Asiatic Adventures & die proud & gay for the advancement of the New Twot Order. We can shower with cute Marines!!!

What else? The List goes on & on. We can be just like the Str8t Crowd—kids, divorces, alimony, child support, benefits, boondoggles, baby-buggies. Gee Whiz—aint Acculturation neat?

Well, just look at me. I fit right into the bitch queen cat fight mob out there in the back alley of American Poetry. I’m just an ole Tom Cat for Love I guess…

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Portrait in the Attic

The Portrait in the Attic

“Louis Latourette met Wilde coming
out of the bar Calisaya… Wilde said,
“I want to show you Dorian Gray’s
photograph,” and he took out a
photograph of a young Englishman
he had met in Rome. “That’s the way
I imagine Dorian. I didn’t find or see
him until after I described him in the
book. You see, my idea is right, that
art inspires and directs nature. This
young man would never have existed
if I hadn’t described Dorian.”
—Richard Ellmann, Oscar Wilde

It started with just a single portrait up there—up there in my rather closeted, locked Attic. First, the portrait of my better half—then slowly, gradually, decadently, rotting away, decaying up there, framed within the disgusting portraiture of what I’d become, who I really was, who I didn’t ever want to gaze upon again…

And yet, of course, eventually Vanity is overcome with its guilty pleasures and worries about having gone too far, doing what I was best at doing at, regretting it afterwards—yet unable to stop denigrating myself in ways that made me want to hide it up there in the Attic.

Hiding what I was becoming—knowing all too well that up there in the Attic the real rotting me was stinking & mildewing away, hidden behind a red velvet curtain where not even the rats could see me … my disgusting physical decadent denouement.

Despite all that, though, out of a sick curiosity almost as sick as my sickening nightly addictions down by the sailor docks & opium dens, finding myself creeping up the stairs once again afterwards, guided by a dim candelabra with its flickering, snickering evil glow…

Sneaking up the creaking staircase—me & my slovenly hangover & bloodshot eyes, sliding upstairs, undoing the huge padlock, opening up the groaning attic doorway, pushing it open just enough to let the stuffy air ooze out—the putrid smell of my own hidden personal mausoleum of shame and niggardly regrets, hesitating, then finally entering the upstairs attic Tomb of my own Death…

But, of course, being the bored snotty daddy that I was—I grew bored with such a hide & seek game after a few years, since it was so tiring to see the same old rotting Face again & again, knowing only too well what to expect, what to know was up there, not wanting to know but not being able to help myself…

Sliding back the dusty, mildewed, spider-webbed, rotting filthy curtain and finally looking at myself once again as I really was—what I had become after nights down in the sullen barrooms and shameless sailor opium dens, disgusted with myself after those long Lost Weekends, full of what I detested the most in myself … my shameless addiction to sultry, sullen, young sailors and rough trade who used & abused me until I was nothing but a damp filthy rag…

But it grew tiring, so very tiring, my dears—the same old thing year after year. The Portrait of Dorian Gray had grown simply much too grotesque, so boringly awful and quite the Miss Quite as far as decadence was concerned. No, I needed a change. Something new to entertain my sick satisfaction with my own rotting decaying Demise. Another portrait perhaps? Something new to record my ongoing decadent downfall—while there was still some time left for fun and games.

Thus, I slowly began adding another portrait—and yet another portrait to my collection up there in the creepy Attic. I couldn’t help myself—I became totally deranged and consumed with filling the Attic with more & more, more & more even more decadent Portraits of myself. The Collection grew & grew—after awhile it became truly a magnificent Gallery of Horror up there.

I called it Dorian’s Closet Gallery—with each portrait portraying a different infernal Face Lift of the best & worst of me. The best of me which all too soon began its all too familiar Worst of me—recording my all too familiar dirty decline and slide down the Slippery Slope of Despicably Disgusting Exquisite Debauchery.

I would commission the most clever decadent young Artists to do my portrait over & over again—then with each finished masterpiece I would hold a lovely private Exhibition for all my dear lovely parasitic friends to behold my once again newly beautiful Incarnation of Infernal Divinity. How envious all the queens were—not knowing, not suspecting the true secret of my seemingly eternal youth, fair complexion, puffy Botox lips & secret evil Smile…

Only to strangle to death the young talented Artist up there in the Attic afterwards—with a golden cord that pulled open & closed the lovely red velvet curtain revealing & concealing this latest lovely work of Dorian-esque portraiture. Such exquisitely divine yet secretly sacrificial Artwork … murderously imbuing each new Portrait with a life of its own.

Yes, my dears, Dorian’s Closet Gallery. It grew & grew up there in my creepy mansion Attic. There was no shame up there—where the young ghosts came & went talking of Michelangelo…

There was only me—and my various Disguises and Innuendos gloriously blooming like strange homicidal bouquets of Red Delirious Deadly Roses, wilting Green Carnations of Cumly Solitude, rotting Pale Orchids of Young Artistic Genius.

All of it fading like me—but then, of course, I had plenty of company!!! A whole Gallery to enliven my Aschenbach moments of Venetian doom and despondency. A whole Gallery of Pale Putrescent Portraits—plus some lovely coffins with delicate artistic corpses pushed off off to the side.

Yes, my lovely Gallery of Dorian Portraits up in there the Attic—would you like to see some of my lovely Etchings, my dear?

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Speak, Pnin

“Like lucid Pnin, whoever searches
for the key and the solution is
engaged in a hard struggle against
a world ruled by an evil designer.
There is light in the word lucid.
And “evil designer”—that’s the key
term of a Gnostic worldview.”
—Michael Maar, Speak, Nabokov

It was winter at Rozhdestveno

I forgot why I left the party at the mansion, passing alone thru the front door between the two twin pillars, the lines of which formed a perfect ex libris from a Nabokovian novel…

And wandered out along the Oredezh River into the dark stillness, peopled only by firs, dark and gaunt, walking under the sullen red glow of the sky, scudding with low-hanging clouds on the verge of arson, along a path surely Vlad had walked as a boy.

I could feel the Russian chill of 1917, the crunch of snow beneath my feet, Uncle Ruka giving me the estate, the Revolution taking it away from me, later in a dream telling me he would come back to me as a clown, Stanley Kubrik, restoring everything I lost and asserting his love for me once again.

Here I am now, a guest at the Montreaux Palace Hotel, sitting on a bench out front of my Switzerland home, thumbing thru my card catalog, my index card universe for Ada.

And like Pnin, swooping away from Seattle to Wordsmith College, New Wye, Appalachia, USA—finding myself in Pale Fire, this strange novel within a novel. Chairman of the Slavics Dept—a colleague of both Professor Shade and Kinbote.

A Zembla queen. Like them. Lucky me.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Coffee and Cigarettes

Coffee and Cigarettes (2003)


“Are you all right, Taylor?

“Uh. Not really.”

“What’s up?”

“I dunno. I feel so divorced from the world. I’ve lost touch with the world. Do you know that song by Mahler? “I’ve Lost Track of the World?”


“It’s one of the most beautiful, saddest songs ever written.”

“I can almost hear it now.”

“Can you hear it?”

“I think so.”

This last scene of “Coffee and Cigarettes” with Bill Rice and Taylor Mead by Jeim Jamusch. A haunting scene centered around an ethereal piece of Mahler drifting thru the air.

The Mahler piece extended here is “Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen” by Magdalena Kozená with orchestra directed by Claudio Abbado.

A related rendition with the lyrics from the song-poem by Friedrich Ruckert sung by Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau (baritone) is here: