Monday, November 11, 2013

Elderly Fags in the Castro


The greatest expectation—
I suppose is that surely things
Will get better & better

After all, my dears—
Successfully adjudicated 

And yet in The Castro—
The very Heart of our
Gay Push for Equality

The real estate creeps—
Are pushing out the Fags
For Silicon Valley Straights

Our Elderly SF citizens—
There in the Castro District
Usurped insidiously now

Harvey Milk would’ve—
Been driven out of business
Does the Castro have pride?

Faulkner and Polk


“There is a blank spot
right in the middle of
where my memory
ought to be”—Noel Polk

Polk and Picayune—
They’re like anti-memoirs
For me back in the South

I’m not a character—
In these pages and yet
I’m writing about it

Noel Polk & Faulkner—
As well as living down
There in the Deep South

They’re both dead now—
All I have left is memories
Reading them at LSU

There in Allen Hall—
Me as queer Quentin

Faulkner knew me—
 Polk too way back then
In the Viet Nam Sixties

Yoknapatawpha yanked—
Me outta the gay Closet
Deep South Lit saved me

Saturday, November 9, 2013

Uranian Vagabondage


“His Eminency says that you
may publish these naïve and
almost Dantesque and
sometimes quite Homeresque
fragments” —Frederick William Rolfe

I suppose my dears—
There’s nothing quite worse
Than Uranian vagabondage

Being a Born-Again Fag—
The object of gay derision
By the Queenly Pantheon

Feasting with Panthers—
Precociously Pater-esque 
In this Wildean wilderness

Like Baron Corfu’s—
Weirding of the Wanderer
Daring debutante once again


“Let it be known that I
was called in an age yet
to come Nicholas Crabbe
the Impossible”—Frederick 
William Rolfe, THE WEIRD 

How else to deal—
With the Slings and Arrows
Outrageous Fortune dishes out

Tableau vivants—
Venice delectations
Aschenbach’s laments

Boss Cupid Venice—
Androgynous Theater
Fag Film Noir Flick

Miss Auden says—
“Naughty, naughty
What would Mother say?”


“For I penetrated into 
the occult arcana”
—Frederick William Rolfe

Was it Sebastian Melmoth—
Or perhaps Sebastian Nabokov
Who gave me some advice?

The Vassar novelist—
Had read CHICKEN (1979)
Back in graduate school

“The Last Uranian”—
He signed his lovely novel
Now in my tall bookshelves

I do feel rather somewhat—
Ancient being a Uranian again
A Reincarnated Rake


“to commune with
long-dead sages”
—Frederick William Rolfe

What’s worse, my dear—
Being a born-again Uranian
Or one for the first time?

Is only one way to go there
Languishing in a beach-chair

Or pretending to be a Borgia—
Or a new Vatican Pope like
Miss Baron Corfu pretended?

I simply can’t really decide—
A closeted Aschenbach, a Borgia
Or perhaps a new Vatican Pope?


“enduring unmentioned
and unthought-of anguish”
—Frederick William Rolfe

Doodles and ditherings—
Fin de siècle fantasies
Tres rococo-esque, my dear

And yet what else—
Can I possibly do now
Daring descent and decline?

Lavish literary genres—
Decaying like human beings
English especially susceptible 

Why just the other day—
Detoured by some dithering delirious 
Diphthongs into a queer quagmire!!!

Pizza Slut


“The sky was uniformly grey”
—Alan Hollingshurst,

The sky was dreary-deary dinge—
So tres tragically depressingly

Without any sign of sunshine—
Breaking thru the cloudy frippery 

The sun had migrated south—
Surely to never return again

What I needed was a quickie—
A delicious douche of the divine

Rather than dawdle away the—
Tawdry gnarly overcast day

So I did what I usually do—
I phoned for some Thai takeout

Something sweet and sour—
And then if that wasn’t enough

I’d call the delivery boy—
The Pizza Slut Kid for relief

Friday, November 8, 2013

Pope Hadrian VII


“the usual loungers 
and pleasure seekers”
—Frederick Rolfe, 
Baron Corvo, Pope Hadrian VII

I was hardly disappointed, my dears—
After Pope Benedict XVI abdicated

And the Vatican didn’t choose me—
To be St. Peter’s new Vivacious Vicar 

But it’s not I who had lost the Vatican—
It’s the Vatican who had lost me, my dear

So when the Cardinals slank up to me—
I civilly shooed them from my gondola 

I raised my drawbridge and told them—
I was beyond parleys from the heights

Never anymore would I seek them out—
Those stuttering little Chrysostom priests

With their Mad Hatter insane tiaras—

I had my own Temple of the Holy Ghost—
My muscular young Venice gondolier

I’d rescued Zildo from an earthquake—
After that we sailed the Adriatic Sea

The Desire and Pursuit


“Truth is tarter than taradiddles;
and nothing is tarter, terser, than 
truth on the track of tired trash 
in a trance.”—Frederick Rolfe, 
Baron Corvo, The Desire and 
Pursuit of the Whole: A Romance 
of Modern Venice 

I brushed aside the accumulation of—
Cigarette-ash from my smoking jacket

Picking up a copy of the NYTimes—
Reading once again the news from Rome

The NYTimes is a kind of subterfuge for—
Readers excluded from a view of the facts

It said much but signified nothing—
Hoodwinking, indulging in imagination

Reading between the lines one can sense—
A tale of unparalleled ghastliness opening

“How exquisitely horrible it is,” I said—
Something mysterious was happening

The Creepazoids were taking over—
Cretinism and idiocy on the upswing

Mobs of lower class child idiots were—
Swamping and infesting the schools

People were manifesting defective things—
Like some abortion of the mind, lower IQ’s

These lower classes of idiots were like—
Altogether beneath the animal world

They possessed not taste, smell, hearing—
Sight or touch, they were human imbeciles

Their degenerated brains couldn’t fathom—
The simplest syntax or pleasing dictions

Simple words like “cagotism,” “latebrose”—
“dedecorous,” “physidoyls,” “vexilla,” “amoenely” 

“Succursale” and the verb “ostends”—
Were simply beyond their feeble child idiocy 

Actually though some of my best friends—
Are child idiot gondoliers down here in Venice

I prefer them that way, my dear, for obvious—
And tell-tale reasons I shan’t get into now

Other than to say that my favorite gondolier—
Drinks only wine and plies a mean oar

Not that I’m a whore about rough trade—
But it’s such a refreshing change when

Compared with my miserable egotistical—
Tres gay muse consumed with ambition

Hadrian-esque pubic curls so entrancing—
His back, loins and shoulders so strong…

Miss Hadrian the Divine


I was tres tired, simply worn out—
After years and years of trashy

Hope deferred, loneliness and the
Awful pain of unrewarded gay toil

I took everything as nothing more—
Than a personal miserable affront

I was no stranger to mental fatigue—
But corporeal anguish was simply

Much too much for my delicate ego—
The horror of all the world’s creepazoids

I tried to write but dazed by a tacky—
Torrent of ideas I’d find myself dizzy

Meandering in a maze of words to—
The point of sheer utter exhaustion

I’d lose the thread of an argument—
My pen remaining immobile for hours

Sitting here in my low armchair with—
Its shabby brocade, dull-mauve & green

My capacity for writing lovely poetry—
Is being constricted by the times

Old legitimate monarchies are rather—
Everywhere declining & so am I, my dear

Hadrian the Seventh


“His sense of beauty
was a great deal
more than acute”
—Frederick Rolfe

As dainty a sight as I ever did see—
In a drifting boat my young gondolier

On the fetid waters of ancient Venice—
So slender, debonair, not shy at all

He knows me already much too well—
I’m just another Aschenbach to him

Deep green water as green can be—
His green eyes, his white ivory teeth

His thin waist bare and tanned—
I have to get him while I can

A string of runny ruthless pearls—
I marvel at his wondrous skin

Lithe rugged legs & lagoons—
Shuddering blushing boss cupid

A setting sun & golden glare—
Dare I do him again one more time?

Thursday, November 7, 2013

A Prick for the Knowing Ones


“I am the first in the East,
the first in the West, and
the greatest philosopher
in the Western World”
—“Lord” Timothy Dexter


To queens at Large the time is—
Com at Last the grat day of Regoising

What is that whye I will tell you—
thous three kings is Rased my dears

Rased you meane shoued—
know Rased on the first Royel Arch

In the worid olmost—
not quite but very hiw up upon

Thay are good mark to be scene—
so the womans Lik to see the frount

And all peopel Loves to see them—
as the quakers will Com and peape slyly

And say houe the doue frind—
Father Jorge washeton is the senter

King Addoms at the Rite hand—
the prssent king at the Left hand

Father gorge with his hat on—
the other hats of the middel king

With his sword king Addoms—
with his Cane in a grand poster

Adtetoude turning his fass to wards—
the first king as if thay was on

Sum politicks king our present king—
he is stands hearng being yonger and

Very deafe in short being one—
grat felosfer Looks well East & west

And North & south deafe & very deafe—
the god of Nater has dun very much

For our present king and all our—
former ones thay are all good

I want them to Live for Ever—
and I beleave thay will

It is hard work to be A king—
I say it is harder than tilling the ground

I know it is for I find it is hard work—
to be A Lord I dont desier the sound

But to pleas the peopel at Large—
let it gou to brak the way it dus for

A sort ment to help a good Lafe tp—
cour the sick spleney goutey dull frames

Lik my selfe with the goute and so on—
make merry a Chealy Christon

No matter what thay worshep—
son monne or stars or there wife

Or miss if onnest Live for Ever—
money wont gitt thous figers so fast

as I wish I have senc to Leg horn—
for many mr bourr is one Amonks

many others I sent in the grand—
Crecham thous 3 kings Are plane

white Leead colow at present—
the Royal Arch & figers cost 39 pounds

silver the hiest Councaton order—
in the world so it is sade by knowing ones

I have only 4 Lions & 1 Lam—
up the spread Eagel has bin up 3 years

upon the Coupalay I have 13 billors front—
in strat Row for 13 states when we begun

Round the hous Nater has formed—
the ground Eaquel to a Solomun

the onerbel Jonathan Jackson—
one of the first in this Country

for tast borne a grat man by Nater—
then the best of Lurning what sot me

fored for my plan having so gran spot—
the hool of the word Cant Excead this to

thous that dont know would think—
I was Like halfe the world a Lier

I have traveled good deale but old—
steady men sayeth it is the first that it is

the first best in this Contry—
& others Contrey I tell you this the trouth

None of you all great men needent be
A frunted at my preseadens

I spare Now Cost in the work I have—
the tempel of Reason in my garding

3 years past with a toume—
under it on the Eage of the grass

see it cost 98 gineys besids the Coffen—
panted whit in side & out side

touched with green Nobel trimmings—
uncommon Lock so I can tak

the kee in side and have fier works—
in the toume pipes & tobacker

A speaking trumpet and a bibel—
to read & sum good songs

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

My Last Wilde Boy Salon

My Last Wilde Boy Salon

“Brad would
rather be dead”
—Richard Howard
“My Last Hustler”

There they all are—
lounging and lying naked
or rather lying in wait for
whatever I’m going to read
them, some on coke or pills, 
others with eyes without flashes 
of lust or blushing, shameless desire,
only a boredom, a tender tribute
to neither Wilde nor eroticism

These are serious customers—
I say to myself perusing the mob,
suspicion creasing their faces,
obviously once all those Botux lips
were naturally puffy with boyfriend
wonder and compliant fleshy joys,
but now far beyond blowjobs,
these young Wildean poets already
have the look of Sebastian Melmoth 

I’d blow them sympathetic kisses—
but what does a old queen like me
have to offer these young boyish 
poets that already seem more jaded
than me, their modern day bateau ivre
journeys much more arduous than mine,
this salon reception room standing room
only crowd I’m reading to & discussing
Dorian Gray if only she were here

Interviewing the Wilde Boys

Interviewing the Wilde Boys

“You’re a cute one.”
—Christopher Hennessy
“The Interview as Cruising Ground”
QLBTQ Point of View November 1, 2013

“I invited the cute gay poets right away,” 
Mr. Dimitrov said. “I sort of had a list of 
gays that I wanted to come, and some 
of them that I wanted to sleep with.”
—Alex Dimitrov “The Wilde Boys Salon
for Poetry or Maybe a Hot Date” 
New York Times Fashion & Style 
November 2, 2011


“It was simply exhausting, my dears”—
Miss Dimitrov confesses later on after

Interviewing a dozen tres cute poets—
All of them quite anxious to please

Oral interviews can be quite the quite—
A way to taste future poetry to come

New Wilde boys so cute and cuddly—
All the older queens so tres jealous

Monday, November 4, 2013

Interview as Artform


“How does poetry 
between gay men 
serve as a kind 
of cruising ground 
in some respects, 
as a space to learn 
about the nature 
of (gay) desire?”
—Christopher Hennessy
"The Interview as Cruising Ground"
QLBTQ Point of View 
November 1, 2013


Yes, the interview as artform. As with Hennessya gay ‘cruising ground’ artform. He’s good at it—plus he’s tres talented at critiquing his own performance at it as well. As with this latest GLBTQ interview with himself—a unique form of book review I must say.

My interviews with gays are much more along the lines of fag fictional characters out of my imagination. For example, here’s a rather popular piece I posted recently: “Interview with James Whale.” 

My style of interviewing is somewhat less cruisy that Hennessy’s charming interviews. Especially when it comes to various Hollywood horror directors…

Such as campy Ed Wood Jr. interviewing Miss James Whale in a rather tres gay conversation there beside Miss Whale’s lovely Pacific Palisades pool. 

It’s a rather jaundiced interview—somewhat interrupted by Miss Whale’s languishing laments about his Hollywood horror film oeuvre.

Nicely interrupted though, now and then, by cute cavorting nude CA boytoys playing there in the lovely blue pool.

Miss Lit Crit



Addison DeWitt: 
"I'm Addison DeWitt. 
I'm nobody's fool, 
least of all yours." 

Comments tres quick
glib, funny, bitchy sometimes,
Tres revealing & hardly insightful

Comments so astute—
Lit Crit or Drama Queen reviews
So tres "sperm-of-the-moment"

I love queer quickies—
performance reviews of how
good we are or aren’t in bed

"You’re asking fans 
of Justin Bieber 
to be rational, 
do you know how 
this suggestion is. 
The only thing 
they should be doing 
is giving out 
wire coat-hangers 
at his concerts 
for the good 
of the world."