Smoke, Lilies and Jaded Dinge

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m5gM7ysWxsk

Smoke, Lilies, Jaded Dinge

“And breathed
Into my ear
The burnt breath of
Satiation”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

I got back to the apartment after classes once—only to find Tyrone & his younger brother Jerome in bed together. At first I was consumed with jealousy—they were like 2 black angels caught in the middle of making love. But my jealousy soon turned to shame—they didn’t even pay any attention to me. They preferred brotherly incest—to my furtive embrace. Their incestuous doing the sixty-nine in bed—filled me with all the eroticized rush that interracial touch delivers. The incestuous pollination between the 2 young brothers—it was queer & erotically charged, I almost fainted as I came…
__________________________________

“And whose eyes I have
Only cast down to view me
From above lips that
Twist in the smile that
Passion brings to quiver
Flaring nostrils”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

Jerome was 2 years younger than Tyrone—he was lighter skinned & more hung than my lover. They had different fathers—and the same beautiful young mother. She liked the men—and the men liked her. I knelt by the bed—ogling myself to death. I wanted to be a part of a mulatto ménage a trois—but I held back. Incest taboos were so full of Eros & Thanatos for me—it just drove me crazy.
______________________________________

“For such things are
A search for the real
Thing, and each is the
Real thing until done
And proved not”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

I had the same feelings for my younger brother too—I’d sucked him off I don’t know how many times. Engorged Family Tree—with all its bad biology cum. I felt so much guilt back then—and so much dinge lust & guilt. But Tyrone & Jerome had no shame—they took their time with their teen oral intercourse. And they didn’t gag either—like I did with Tyrone’s runny wads…
____________________________________

“How did I come to know you?
You remember & use it against me.
I remember & say I love you.
How did you come to know me?"
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

Both brothers had known each other—for a long time. Sixty-nine was a butchy hetero way of getting off—trying to come together at the same time. They were good at it—they liked me watching the action. They’d shocked their girlfriends too—when they refused to give them head. “Okay,” they said—letting them see what a man can really do with another dick.
_______________________________________

“As others had—
As all others had—
Half thru libidinous
Curiosity, half thru
Accident”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

The chicks & I—we’d end up with insipid queer black ennui. They’d pout or storm off—not wanting to seethe two boyz get down. With me it was more perverse—I liked what I saw & I liked the new kind of shame that coiled thru me like a snake. It was a queer ennui with its own unique kind of shame. I felt cross-pollinated with incestuous lust & creative shame. It conjured up spirits of HooDoo VooDoo forbidden love—these two young cute well-endowed black studs into a perverse down-low with themselves. They were shameless—down to the last turgid wiggle.
______________________________________

“Your face became flushed,
your eyes embarrassed”
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

Afterwards I asked Tyrone—why couldn’t he wait till I got back from classes. He yawned—he rolled over in bed. “Cause I couldn’t wait,” he said. “I needed it bad.” I got into bed—he said Jerome felt the same way. He needed it bad too—after looking thru some of my porno. How could I feel jealous—about these 2 young studs getting off? I couldn’t sleep—just thinking about how queer could taboos get? Does incest trump interracial sex? How deep does it go?
____________________________________

“More embarrassed still
And blushed yet more
Becomingly”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

Neither one of them blushed—the only time I saw young Jerome really blush & get embarrassed was when I rimmed him the first time. He liked it so much he started hanging around the apartment—when Tyrone was at work in the infirmary cafeteria. I embarrassed him good—I got my snaky tongue way up there as far as I could get. His girlfriend wouldn’t even give him head—I got the good stuff. It was stronger tasting & 10-times as repugnant as his older brother’s jizz…
___________________________________

“Oh, I notice all
About you then—
Your sweet-drawn legs
Your stance, broadly strong
As slightly straddled you’d
Spread your legs to stand
Unconscious of suave line
Of calf, thigh & groin”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

Both of them were basketball players—that’s how they stayed in shape. They treated me like a dirty piece of white trash—except at the very end. And then it was “Oh, Yolande!!!” this—and “Oh, Roxanne!!!” that. If those girlz—only knew… They’d be the jealous ones—not me. They were always calling up—and knocking at the door. Tough tittie…

Shame, Shame, Shame

Shame, Shame, Shame

“If only for moments
Of physical bliss—
A gift I know I’ve given
A gift that you accepted”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

Upstairs at night—in Bruce Nugent’s studio—that’s where I got to know myself—there in the Niggeratti Manor Temple—the walls lovingly painted with Harlem bad boyz in the nude—erect & stoned like I was—modeling for the Harlem Renaissance Black Michelangelo—Richard Bruce Nugent—first he’d suck you off—then he’d paint you on the walls…
______________________________________

“You say my body
Is my vice and the
Vice of better men”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth



He picked me up down at a rent party one drunken night—I was dancing for a bunch of white guyz in a dumpy apartment above the Cotton Club—I was hot & I knew it—I was fresh dinge chicken meat—straight off the bus from Biloxi, Mississippi—I barely got outta town alive—the white faggot deputy & his gang of S/M queen queer thugs—were out to get me—they knew a good thing when they saw it—a well-hung black kid like me—just ripe for a lynch-job sex-party in the Dark Oaks mansion—where many young succulent studs had disappeared—they’d lynch you all right—but first came the butt-party & blowjobs—then the necktie party long & drawn-out—those Biloxi faggots took their time with uppity handsome black studs like me—it wasn’t pretty—I barely got outta town alive—ending up in Harlem…
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“Perhaps. My body
Has been misused;
Misused a 1000 times
Or more: “Misused” I
Say in deference.
Politeness to your
Phrasing. I call it not
Misuse. But then…
Let’s not quibble”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

I was used to it—dirty white boyz & nasty white dudes—all of them dinge size queens—wanting to see me dance—at the end of a rope—but I made them pay for it—I wasn’t cheap—I was in demand at rent parties—some of them in ritzy penthouses & Fifth Avenue joints—I preferred dancing for the ladies—they were mostly urban sophisticates—more curious than anything—wanting to connect with the Harlem Thing—after a night at the Cotton Club—you could hear the jazz down below—my natural build & natural ear & natural rhythm & natural sexuality—but I was bored to death—and running scared—white people made me nervous—all they wanted was all I had—all the way drained dry to the last squirt…
___________________________________

“Many is the body
I have explored
Feverishly with my
Lips and tongue
And many are the
Lips I’ve kissed.
Many the boy who,
Fever-fired, searched
With blind weapon to
Pierce me through.
And did with my
Assistance.”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth

Bruce was different—he was an artist. All I had to do was pose in the nude for him—it was easy as sweet-potato pie—I was the one that made him—I couldn’t understand somebody like him—Wallace Thurmond & him were the cool, intellectual types—they called me a child of spring—and I suppose I was naïve & all that—it was there in the Niggeratti Manor I got to meet all of them—the Harlem literati & artists—the ones with brains—the young black intelligentsia of FIRE!!!

Shame (The Supremes)

Shame (The Supremes)

“You think to shame me"
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me,”
Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance:
Selections from the Work of Richard
Bruce Nugent, by Thomas H. Wirth
_______________________________________

“You think to shame me
And use to flay me
Disgust for the life I’ve lived”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me”

Shame on me, my dear—I should be desperately ashamed of myself—and I am ashamed of myself—my shame grows day by day, night by night & wad by wad—my shame is simply shameless, my dear—the way it grows like mold on cheese—cheesy as Negro smegma after a shot or two of pure unadulterated runny thick Negritude—talk about skanky-tasting Niggeratti Manor Harlem Renaissance Flashbacks…
________________________________________

“I tell you I love you
And you taunt me”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me”

I’m simply shameless—it’s just like the Supremes way back then—the way they used to sing & whine & chastise me all the time—“Shame, Shame, S-h-a-m-e!!!—In the name of Love!!!”—“Oh baby, Shame, Shame, Shame!!!—Shame On YOU!!!”—It be just awful, my dears, how ashamed I got back then—and nothin’ much as changed either, honey—“Shame!!! Shame!!! Shame in the Name of Love!!!”—Oh man, I still get that Shameless Feeling—the kind of Shame that Tyrone made me feel—the kind of Shame I still can get—over a long lanky lean young Mandingo kid—a hot smirky wise-ass cute Negro guy—with strong basketball legs & lots of bad Attitude—down there in the YMCA shower…
______________________________________

“the fact of my promiscuity,
I tell you I love you”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me”

Ooh yeah baby, I sure enough can blush & feel downright goddamn ashamed of myself—in runs in my family all that bad blood—and I like it too cause it fuckin’ feels good to feel that way—to feel alive & full of shameless Dinge Queen queer Love—I can’t help it, honey, I never could—like it’s in my tainted dirty whiteboy blood—the way Afro-American mulatto cum runs through me way down deep—not just Tyrone’s cheesy runny snotty loads—that be shamelessly succulent & all-knowing just like his is…
__________________________________

“As you have so many men?
Can you love?”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me”

But also it be in my Family Tree—hidden inside my dirty whiteboy loins & bad blood groin—the same Dinge Ledgers that Ike McCaslin hated to read that kerosene lamp night staying up late at night as a kid—reading thru the Ledger pages deeper & deeper into his genealogical past—all the way back thru his fucked-up Delta Autumn decadent seminal bloodline waiting for him
____________________________________

“These are the words you speak to me
when I tell you I love you
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me”

All the way back to my great-great grandfather L.Q.C. Mccaslin there in the Carolinas—all the way back to him making love to his dinge half-brother Thucydus—both of them exiled by their outraged East Coast antebellum father in shame all the way down into Deep South Mississippi—way down there in the stinking Delta Bourbon swamps & jizzy jigaboo jungles—where my dirty old great-great grandfather even fucked the wife he bought for half-brother Thucydus in New Orleans—and then fucked his own daughter as well to keep the Thucydus Line of decadent tainted big-dick aristocracy going…
_____________________________________

“Is it not perhaps a habit of speech
grown glib with frequent using?”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me”

No, no!!! Not his own brother—No, no!!! Not his own daughter!!!—No, no!!! Not my young dinge kid brother Tyrone!!!—“Shame, Shame, Shame!!! In the name of L-O-V-E!!!—three goddamn long thick skanky centuries of Deep South cum—years & years of Delta Bourbon jizz—humid magnolia-nights of Bon the Beautiful Incestuous High Octoroon Romance—mind-lessly, unashamedly, knowingly, manhandled—me in Tiger Town south of campus—there in the student ghetto of Louisiana State University—feeling the same shame as my decadent Mississippi Delta predecessors felt—déjà vu dinge queen love for young Southern teenage blackness
____________________________________

“And read these poor words
I ineptly write, that at least
You owe me”
—Bruce Nugent,
“You Think To Shame Me”

Getting you off as much as I possibly can—my young mulatto boyfriend naked & stoned in bed—your veiny, unabashedly, unashamed uncut dark meat—engorged & full of deepest darkest Congo Cum—oozing all the way from William Faulkner’s moody Yoknapatawpha County—clear over here to Huey P. Long’s tall proud phallic Louisiana art deco skyscraper capitol—streamlined moderne & rising erect high over the sullen Mississippi River—thick & slow as Big Easy salt-water taffy—sluggish & slow as brown sugar cumly black molasses…

NEW SMOKE, LILIES AND JADE

NEW SMOKE, LILIES, AND JADE __________________________________________

“…and Alex called
him Beauty…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

I had a visit—
A surprise visitation
Late Saturday night.

A dinge noir affair—
A kind of Uranian
Fallen Angel (1945).

He needed money—
I took it out in dinge trade
A kid from the gym.

“…blowing smoke and
exchanging thoughts…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

We had a nice chat—
He was truly a teenage
Rainier Beach beauty.

A young sophomore—
Bored going to high school there
By the swimming pool.

Little black ladies—
Getting their exercise just
Like me doing laps.

“…but beauty must
never know…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

I met Black Beauty—
In the locker-room one day
Beauty’s lips were thick.

Thick like molasses—
Dark syrupy brown sugar
So very pouty.

I couldn’t help it—
I let him know by looking
He was no dummy.

“…Beauty couldn’t
understand…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

Surely he didn’t—
Really understand the truth
Naked, unvarnished.

The down on my knees—
Mouth-watering suckable
Suckulento truth?

My dirty white-boy—
Shameless desires & urges
For Mandingo love?

“…he felt a glow
of tremor…”
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

Didn’t say a thing—
He was one of those sullen
Tall & silent types.

Obviously str8t—
His physique so butchy-poised
Like a cocked Luger.

Blue smoke curling soft—
Outta the sleek black barrel
Pulling his trigger.

“a field of blue smoke
and black poppies and
red calla lilies…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

I didn’t have to—
Imagine it very long
When my doorbell rang.

Black Beauty stood there—
Holding a bouquet of white
Lilies just for me.

I had him nude soon—
Standing there erect with his
Petulant lilies.

“…on my hands and knees…
pushed aside a lily stem…
a lily…and suddenly he
stood erect…exultant…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

My lily-white face—
Shamelessly blushing for him
My Voodoo Angel.

My Fallen Angel—
On a dark Saturday night
No Church tomorrow!

Bishop Long be Bad—
But I’m more Bad Boy than him
Down in Atlanta!

“…he was searching
and pushed aside lily
stems…and saw two
strong black legs…
dancer’s legs…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

Strong thick athletic—
The kind of legs young boxers
Get there in the Ring.

Ran my hands over—
His nice smooth lean bubble-butt
Tender dinge loin-chops.

When I squeezed them tight—
He flexed them back just for me
I almost fainted.

“…the contours pleased
me…my eyes wandered
…on past the muscular
hocks to the firm white
thighs…past rounded
buttocks…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

Coolly observing—
My cat disdainfully yawned
At my lily love.

Down on my queer knees—
Embedded in the soft purr
Persian carpets.

Spreading the lilies—
Aside to reveal a dinge
Mighty Joe Young stud.

“…then the lithe narrow
waist…strong torso and
broad deep chest…the
wide shoulders…the
graceful muscled neck…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

FIRE came out only—
In one single issue back
Then in 1926.

At the very height—
Of the Harlem Renaissance
Gay Black Homo Lit.

The younger Voices—
Nugent, Hurston & Thurman
Radically Black.

“…his brown eyes looking
at me…his hair curly and
black and all tousled…
and it was Beauty…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

Black sugar tableaux—
Smoke, lilies & jaded lips
Queer pollen pubes.

Up…up…slowly up—
Not fast…not gloriously
But slowly upward.

His hands on my head—
Downward, downward straight as sin
Going down on him.

“…on my hands and knees…
pushing aside poppy stems
and lily stems…lilies…poppies
and bruised calla lilies…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

Moonlight oozed down thru—
Voodoo Venetian blinds
I felt old ghosts moan.

Perhaps it was true—
Old Harlem be back in vogue
With me on my knees.

Mississippi mud—
Old Man River’s sad old sludge
Quivering young spluge.

“…slightly parting lips…
and straight little nose
with its slightly flaring
nostrils…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

He squeezed the lilies—
In his tight teenage sweaty
Banged-up knuckles fist.

All his young maleness—
Squeezed into that single nut
With its creamy cum.

Squeezing Harlem hips—
Mandingo nectar all the
Back from the Twenties.

“…and in his hand he
held…an ivory holder…
inlaid with red jade…
and green…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

We smoked a fat joint—
My pulse was still hammering
Lips to finger tips…

Softly staccato—
Armstrong playing way back then
“Why Am I So Blue?”

His thick pouty lips—
Press against mine cool & hard
We do it again.

“…such a dream…white calla
lilies…white calla lilies…what
could it mean…did dreams
have meanings…thousands…
millions…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

Long stemmed lily-white—
Bending down as I did him
They’re in a vase now.

The blue night has gone—
A rose dawn drifts thru windows
Silent living room.

I can still taste him—
Black beauty of the blue night
Harlem back again.

“…pushed aside
a lily stem…a lily…
and suddenly he
stood erect…exultant…”
—Bruce Nugent,
“Smoke, Lilies and Jade,”
FIRE November 1926

Dennis Speight holding—
Sheaf of six calla lilies
Orgasmic bouquet.

Six of them shooting—
White seminal flowerings
Up from his dark groin.

Lilies springing up—
Engorged with their own juices
Between his tight fists.

BROWN SUGAR

BROWN SUGAR—

WPA THIRTIES MURALS

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Shuddering I gazed up at the mural. The Louisiana Delta sky was blue—the half-naked cane-workers were golden-brown. They were shirtless—I could smell their sweat, their sweet armpit odors, their sharp machetes slicing the cane. All of it captured up there on the wall by the WPA murals—there in the Allen Hall hallway as I stood there. Gazing up—weak knees bending, feeling my hardon taking over my every thought & feeling. Standing there by the windows—overlooking the lovely Quad, the calm Library, the quiet campus afternoon—the humid long lazy afternoon of my shameless, black noir shame. ____________________________________________

I thought about Tyrone back in my apartment—there in that shabby Tiger Town ghetto, favored by queens, drop-outs, stoners, dealers, the rejects of the prim & proper children of the Delta Bourbon bourgeoisie. I could still taste him—the awful, skanky, nauseating Negro wad that I craved—thick as snot, runny as a pair of flat wide quivering erect nostrils could be, tangy & repugnant young manhood—a trembling Tablespoon of it—letting it slowly ooze down my throat—even as I stood now in the moody, sullen hallway of the temple—the English Dept with its secret crypt of Southern Decadence that I’d discovered there… __________________________________________

The secret of the whole skanky Bon the Beautiful mystery—the miscegenational metamorphoses of Going Down On Moses—getting off Percival Brownlee—reliving the lie of Absalom, Absalom—cute Quentin Compson getting fucked by Shreve McCannon in the Harvard dorm—Henry Sutpen falling in love with his dinge half-brother—Charles Bon Sutpen—the true heir to Sutpen’s Hundred there in Mississippi—going down Dalton Ames on the bridge—getting what Caddy got—the young stud shooting his brains out—blowing the back of my head off—the spaz Benjy beating off by the golf range—the whole goddamn decadent genealogy running thru me—from Old Carothers McCaslin, his love for Thucydus, fucking his daughter, down thru the ledgers—down to the queer brothers Buck & Buddy—and into the guilty closet-case fear & regret of Ike McCaslin, tracking down & finding the kept boy Percival Brownlee in a New Orleans bordello… ____________________________________________

It was a cumly flashback— ____________________________________________

Earlier that morning, I interrupted myself—playing with an old wrinkled Africa map, letting my lowered eyes move past the potted palm to Tyrone’s muscular nude body on the bed. He’d smeared himself with K-Y—all over his hard bronze belly—smearing it with adolescent ache & Zambezi shameless desire… __________________________________________

Tyrone ran his fingers down his belly to his groin—his tiny triangle of pouty kinky pubes—his sullen face looking over at me, a look of disgust on his young distended face. How could I waste time perusing an old crummy outdated map of Africa—when young black Africa was right here in the throbbin now—just waiting for my dirtywhiteboy lips to do what they did so well—shame-faced & blushing with dinge-love—doing the down-low on the Congo… _____________________________________________

I put the map down—suddenly I was erect too. It always happened this way. My mind went fleeing elsewhere—I became possessed, possessed as surely as I was sucked into Hoodoo VooDoo Jungle Lust. The kind of primitive dinge Zombie dicklust—that the Deep South knew only too well—antebellum miscegenation—plantation inbred incest—the love that had no name. Only shame & drums pounding in my head—as Tyrone let me have it—arms behind his neck—his puce kimono flung open—his licorice monster of the black lagoon—the swollen uncut pink head—trick or treat halloween hoodoo—voodoo badboy taking me for a ride—a long ride down river road—down by the levee—old man river oozing thru my veins—dark mississippi river flowing by—getting off tyrone in my mother’s cadillac—all over my face & the windshield—all ten squirts of him… ___________________________________________

Tyrone smirking at me in the apartment—he knows me all too well—it was his thick Negro lips & his big wide flat nostrils—and all his manly Mandingo cum I craved—no matter how much I tried to fight it—I was already as jaded & tainted as I could possible get—worse than any dinge queen on campus—all the other gay denizens of fruity Tiger Town—they all knew my desperate dinge-penis predilection—consumed as I was by Tyrone’s overly-endowed veiny Negritude. _________________________________________

Tyrone was hot—all 12-inches of him—he was tall, long, handsome & lanky—like some cute handsome 18-year-old Darby Jones from Jacques Tourneau’s Haiti horror movie—“I Walked with a Zombie” (1943) to be precise—nude in the moonlight—standing erect in the cane field at night—guarding the crossroads to the Voodoo ceremony—me going down on him, the test of my faggy voodoo worship, sucking the stud off, taking my time at it, milking his cruel undead back-from-the-dead otherworldly Zombie dick, Darby’s thick wad oozing like saltwater taffy outta him—down to the last spaz black dick-wiggle & whimpering otherworldly squirt…

_________________________________________

Tyrone knew it—I knew it—my gay friends & fag hags knew it—his mother knew it—his younger brother knew it—the whole island of Haiti knew it—all that African jizzhood already flowing thru my veins & arteries knew it—everybody on campus knew it—including the closeted English Dept—the Delta dinge journalists—and even the ghost of Miss Faulkner—sitting up late at night there in Mississippi—at his desk sipping whiskey in his study there in his Rowan Oaks mansion—the vast African Id of Black Moses arching up outta Yoknapatawpha County—all the way across the Delta—over to the Mississippi levee—south of Baton Rouge—where I lived in the ancient Dark Oaks Plantation—with my young crew of naked black cane-cutters—working the field south of the Stadium along River Road—that’s where I found naked Tyrone—beating off one afternoon in the dense cane—too helpless to kill me with his razor-sharp machete—as I got my lips on gushing, rushing spluge shot—of his young manhood—giving him $100 to save my life—taking him home to my rundown plantation—lowering mosquito net down behind us—doing what Yolande didn’t wanna do—pulling that thick rope of dinge babypaste outta him all night long—tasting his young African male genealogy—all the way back from his arching groin—with my finger up his asshole—all the way back to Port-au-Prince—then back to Zimbabwe ancient goldmines & ruins—where the Tower of Babel had been traced by philologists—back to the beginnings of some weird Afro-Futurism science-fiction past—and letting it ooze thru me into the Now—holding Tyrone tight as he shot his brains out… _______________________________________________

I kept coming back to the map though—it was a star map now—pouring over it closely—I dunno why really—I’d never set foot on African soil—I’d only gazed thru dark sunglasses at the Kilimanjaro sky in the movies—Miss Hemingway dying on the veldt—as the buzzards circle overhead—then roosting in the trees waiting for the stupid white hunter to fuckin’ die—pushy, muy macho womanizer prick—trying always to prove his manhood—like all of Hemingway’s crummy butchy sickening mock-heroes—or maybe I was just being forced to say goodbye to all that bullshit—the same old hetero tension of whiteboy youth struggling for American manhood—and what if I weren’t a man?—there wasn’t a thing I could do about it—except do what I was doing already—falling in love with young Africa manhood instead—getting to know Tyrone’s sullen moody manhood my way—instead of the usual insanely grotesque Hemingway style—hunting it, killing it, hanging it, lynching it, stuffing it, putting the Head up on the wall…

Closet-Case Countee Cullen

Closet-Case Countee Cullen _____________________________________________ Perplexed Countee Cullen—reluctant closet-case during the Harlem Renaissance—shunning the Niggeratti Manor crowd—the scandalous New Negro Intelligentsia—Thurmond, Nugent the flaming Fire queens—you see, Cullen was Afro-Uranian—in love with the calm, knowing Greeks—across the sea the desire of Southern men with Northern pent-up passions—seeking the young male vigor & purity of Mediterranean ephebes—posing there on Taromina—for postcards by the ancient Roman ruins—yearning for the tenderness of Socrates & Athenian youth—but what about further south—was there such a thing as Afro-Uranian passion more along the lines of Congolese boyz—young Mandingo love? This is what happened to Countee Cullen—exposure as a high school teacher is the last thing he wanted—caught up in the double-homophobic closet of not only being a gay Negro—with all the internalized self-hatred & Harlem black homophobia then—he saw what happened to FIRE and Infants of the Spring—Cullen didn’t want to be a Van Vechten Poster Boy—what good did it do back then—being a dinge pedophile—and so he quietly turned inward—dressing in an elegant 3-piece suit—cool, aloof teacher of French & safe things—nothing to do with The Copper Sun anymore—Afro-Uranian Poetry folding back—into the Harlem Renaissance Closet—so that it takes a gay clairvoyant séance Ouija Board—to speak from the Dinge Dead—Afro-Futurism simply had to wait for him—the struggle between his Congo Id & Whitey Ego—simply too much for even his New Negro Muse—so that the Board speaks to me—The Copper Sun open on my desk—the pages turn by themselves—and I hear the dead poet speak to me—translating into another New Negro idiom—not only the forbidden love that dares not speak its name—but more along the lines of a Colored Calamus style—a youthful Harlem-esque Pausianian Love—even more forbidden than Smoke, Lilies and Jade—a Black Greek Anthology of swift, inexcusable, passionate, adolescent black pride—coy Countee Cullen toiling, feasting, ignoring the Harlem Renaissance—Benvenuto Cellini & Michelangelo kept on the bookshelves & walls—while Countee touched & handled the real thing—behind closed, locked doors, of course—black Strato in the woodpile—Lord Alfred Douglas locked safely in the closet—the chicken dinge love that knows no shame—Copper Sun sunset—Midnight moon comes to Harlem—Mandingo chicken long lanky legs—wrapped tight around Countee Cullen’s neck—strangling Hadrian in his temple bed for hours…

Dinge Zutique

Dinge Zutique _______________________________________

“O Lilies! O Garden swing!

O silver Enema bags!!!”

—Arthur Rimbaud

“Lilies,” Album Zutique ____________________________________________ Niagara Dinge queen—done in By butch—rough trade She falls—and sprawls Showing some—nice leg ____________________________________________ Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? Two sick—young fruits Drastically—pursuing A pair of—thick black legs Quick licks—then kicks!!! ____________________________________________

Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone In Papal Rome—Vivien Leigh Parties with the—Fast Lane Every night—Italian boyz Full of hot—jizzmatic tears _____________________________________________

Night of the Iguana Ava Gardner—has two boyz Each with a—nice scaly iguana She pets nightly—in hammocks Beneath a humid—black moon ____________________________________________ Mysterious Skin Whitewashed—white trash Bored kid—in the trailer park Eating lots of—black licorice His shit—looks like dirty blood ____________________________________________

Gone With the Wind O Dixie Land—Scarlet O’Hara Distaining all—the young dudes In favor of—a more experienced Descent of Vaseline—Dinge Heaven ____________________________________________ Summer and Smoke Summer night—by the fountain Cheap cigars—traveling salesman Earl Holliman—puffing away Geraldine Page—ankles in the air ____________________________________________

The Haunting With my dinge boyfriend—helping to Haunt me nightly—Lovecraftian Black on white—Nightmare noir Meandering dark mansion—mine ____________________________________________

Tabu Taking the 107—downtown The Samoan kid—falling asleep Leaning his head—on my shoulder All the way to Seattle—a hard-on _______________________________________ Casablanca I confess I prefer—Rick’s Place Full of dark Creoles—escaping Paris Sitting at a back table—sipping Absinthe with—Peter Lorre ___________________________________________

The Last Picture Show Ben Johnson—says goodbye The No Tell Motel—finally closes The last movie—at the Royal Theater Gone Odéon—Harlem era ____________________________________________ Elizabeth Cate Blanchett—haughty queen Amidst a court—of gawking rubes Performing—for her compatriots Sneering at—neat nelly Spaniards ____________________________________________ Midnight Cowboy The young cowboy—newly arrived In New York Times Square—soon Finds out that—there’s more to life Than washing dishes—in Dallas ___________________________________________

I Was a Teenage Werewolf I howled at the moon—too much The woods—drapes of the night The Gypsy life—appealed to me You see—I have this noir habit ____________________________________________ Breakfast at Tiffany’s Afterwards—I asked him where He’d like to have—breakfast and He said—I’d like to have breakfast At Tiffany’s—such dinge naiveté _______________________________________

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof Big Daddy—dying of rectal cancer Big Daddy’s son—reluctant husband Mourning over—Skipper & his dick Elizabeth Taylor—not giving up ___________________________________________

House on Haunted Hill O seasons—O haunted châteaus Vincent Price—Last Man on Earth Where are you—when I need you Movie blowjobs—“Nigger Heaven”!!!

DINGE CITY SPEAKS

Dinge City Speaks

____________________________________________________

Sometimes dinge city—Speaks like a dirty white boy Doing the down-low. Other times it speaks—Not with words but with gestures Juju jive jizz ones. Outta black & blue—Snake-back sexy-slithery Moments just for you. Like today down at—The old South Center ghost mall It happens to me. At the post office—I bump into this dinge doll Tall, handsome, gangly. His skin is pale beige—He has bright orange kinky hair And lovely thick lips. Flat erect nostrils—I can see them quivering When he sees me cruise. I stand there in line—While he goes back to his car I just can’t help it. Then to my great shock—I get a good look at the Fat faggot driver. He has a big grin—Smeared all over his fag face It isn’t pretty. I am so jealous—Simply consumed with awful Dinge queen penis-envy. That old fat faggot—Doing the down-low you know Getting the kid off. I just can’t do it—Lick one stupid fuckin’ stamp Thinking about it. Dinge city just smirks—Destroying me completely With one little dish.

The Delta Rain

The Delta Rain __________________________________________

“Soon now

they would

enter the Delta.”

—William Faulkner,

“Delta Autumn,”

Uncollected Stories

of William Faulkner __________________________________________

The Delta rain—the Delta rain. The constant grieving Delta rain. The envelope—with some money. That’s how I said goodbye to her—just give it to her I told Ike. I loved her—but… The rain against the window—I was on my way to Ole Miss. To see her brother—to confront him with what I knew. Why didn’t he tell me—why didn’t he tell me the truth? The truth about me—the truth about him? He looked just like her—they were twins. I was in love with her. I knew that then—I know that now. I’ve always realized it—I realize it even more now. Sitting here in this driving rain. I loved her—I loved them both. Both the Beauchamps… Sam Beauchamp—he’s a freshman at Ole Miss. All these years my best friend. Somehow or another I fell in love with his sister—we lived together the three of us. I loved her a lot—and she loved me. But then she told me—she told me the truth. The Delta rain—the Delta rain. He was like my brother—Samuel Worsham Beauchamp. Grandson of Lucas and Molly Beauchamp. He looked just like his sister—they were twins like day and night. We lived in Yoknapatawpha—down by the Tallahatchie. Down by the bridge—deep in the Swamp… Then one day he said he was going to run off to Chicago—he didn’t want to see me anymore. But I couldn’t help it—anymore than I could help loving his sister. Anymore than… Lucius Quintus…Lucius Quintus Carothers McCaslin and Eunice… It ran in the Family—twins. Twins like Uncle Buck and his brother Uncle Buddy—sons of old Carothers McCaslin…the slave Tomey’s Turl and his girlfriend Tennie Beauchamp…our families twisted together like magnolias and Spanish moss… It ran in the Family—the two families that were one. The Beauchamp family tree deep inside me—the McCaslin family tree deeper than deep. Both old family trees with gnarled roots deep in the Delta… The Delta rain—the Delta rain… Uncle Buck and Uncle Buddy—what would they think? They were for freedom—freedom for all the slaves. But what about me? Wasn’t I enslaved too? I didn’t feel free tho—I didn’t particularly feel emancipated and all that. Not now anyway…I felt totally enslaved now—no matter how I tried to repudiate it… This old Delta—it’s queered me good. I looked out the window—knowing all along what I didn’t want to know. What was there to know—that I didn’t know already? Didn’t I love her—didn’t she love me? Wasn’t that enough—wasn’t that enough? The Delta rain—the Delta rain. It came down hard—the highway was long and slick and dark. It was night—and I had to see him. I had to tell him what he already knew—what he already knew about me and him and her. I had to hear him say it—what his sister told me. I knew it was the truth—but I had to hear him say it… Funny how things work out—you think you know everything. But then all of a sudden—the Delta rain the delta rain. It was way back then—surely if there ever was a now it was then. The three of us—happy growing up together. Going thru high school—and all that stuff. Living together the way we did…without any rules. The days of patchouli—the days of incense and roses. Lying in bed together afterwards—listening to sitar music. Drifting thru the cabin—the bougainvillea. The smell of wisteria in her hair—the way he looked away from me… The Delta rain—the Delta rain. Finally telling me the truth. The rain—the rain. I was in love with her—I was in love with her. But the Delta rain—the Delta rain. I was in love with her—but I was more in love with her brother. I was more in love with him—her cute mulatto brother… The Delta rain—the Delta rain…

Morte d'DJ

__________________________________________ Morte d'DJ—The Black Angel __________________________________________

Twelve Dayz in the Life of a Dinge Queen — Twelve dayz, my dear, for each black 12 inch Epic story of my so-called jaded Delta low-life Going Down on a Young Black Moses Doing the Down-low much too much __________________________________________

Down here on my Delta Bourbon knees — I worship your memory now with these Words My black teenage Rod of Aaron stud My dark sullen adolescent Seed of Abraham Let my tears flow into you, Mississippi Kid ____________________________________________

My handsome Mandingo Native Son — My insolent Giovanni dark-loined youth My turn to be here on the Slave Block now.... Naked kneeling Slave waiting for you Slave to my Yoknapatawpha desires

____________________________________________

Up the driveway to Rowan Oaks — The dark sleek Cadillac Hearse slowly Coursing its way thru moonlight shadows Bringing you back to me one last time Let the HooDoo-VooDoo drums begin… __________________________________________

Standing in the Mansion doorway — Flanked by Haitian Zombie Bodyguards You shall be our new Loverboy Loa Man… Hear the Night wind in the cane fields? The Serpent Godz have returned again __________________________________________

The old magnolias are moaning — Ancient cypresses join in mourning Spanish moss & Bougainvillea vines Snake around rotting verandah columns Your Afro-Futurist time has come…

WHITEBOY BONDAGE BLACK DELIVERANCE

Whiteboy Bondage—

Black Deliverance ___________________________________

“All the girls say—

I’m pretty black for

a white guy.”

—Wentworth Miller

The Human Stain

_______________________________________________

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gl-QCqQyEb0&feature=related

_______________________________________________

We must have—watched it a dozen times “Imitation of Life”—there in the Bijou balcony I could feel it—the black snake moaning The scene with Troy Donahue—too much Beating up Susan Kohner—in the back alley Her pain & agony—made Dwayne Jerome sullen Feeling the way she felt—mulatto broken-hearted Able to pass in a white society—to be accepted Only to have her secret—come out in the open Her loving mother—Lana Turner’s Negro maid… Tall handsome 16-year-old Dwayne Jerome My incredibly beautiful nouveau half-brother Living with me in the big mansion in Ingeville My whole life hopelessly—revolving around him My long lost young Chicago brother Jerome!!! “I think that Bill Inge had already made up his mind to invoke this same shadow and to suffuse it with light” —Tennessee Williams Like Tennessee Williams—and William Inge I struggled to invoke—the same Shadow The invoked One—A Streetcar Named Desire The One—The Dark at the Top of the Stairs My Shadow Twin—Dwayne Jerome Jones!!! Naively I thought—I’d suffuse it with Light But Jerome’s Bondage & Deliverance was Much more than just fun—falling in love Was serious business—the Dark Other I desperately craved—thru Mulatto S & M!!! Whips and black leather—hanging from the Ceiling in chains—all the pleasures & pains I imagined—my so-called Whiteboy Bondage!!! But it was just nothing—compared to Jerome’s Exquisite Mulatto Love and Deliverance!!! Surely it was more than just Penis Envy??? Knowing my younger brother—was more Endowed than me—his African manhood??? Suddenly I became one—with the Shadow My lips touched—The Heart of Darkness!!! It was simply shameless—and unforgivable Being a Size Queen—for one’s kid brother… His blood flowing through me—as surely as it Flowed through his father—and our mother… The Family Tree—wanting to get inside me!!! Those naïve old-fashioned whitey Westerns— The Calvary soldier and Indian slicing their Hands and pressing them together saying “Now we’re blood-brothers, Kimosabe!!!” “Now we’re like blood-brothers, Tonto!!!” It takes a lot more—than just that, baby Dwayne Jerome and me—simpatico smoochers My hot mulatto brother—always with a pout Africa running through him—running thru me Goodbye Heartache—Hello Mulatto Love!!! Jerome had mother’s eyes—her winning ways His bright orange pubes—simply amazing me All the different ways—two brothers can be Alike—all the different ways they can be lost Strangers to each other—lost and then found The way I felt about him—unnaturally ashamed There was no depth—to how ashamed I got Shame made me do things—I’d never done before Dwayne Jerome so very mean—getting off on Watching a dirty whiteboy—beg for it… Sullen and moody—Jerome my Troy Donahue Beating the shit out of Susan Kohner in the alley All that same anger and pent-up mulatto angst Dwayne Jerome taking it out on me— The more I hurt—the more I wanted it bad Roughing me up—because I was Vanilla fag Funny how the pain didn’t hurt—I loved it!!! In fact anything that Jerome did to hurt me Made me feel just the opposite—it felt good Which was asking for trouble—and I got it!!! You know that scene—in The Maltese Falcon? Humphrey Bogart pistol-whipping Peter Lorre “You’ll take it and like it!!!”—he says to Peter Lorre I took it like Peter Lorre—when Dwayne Jerome Pistol-whipped me—with his big black heater I took it and liked it—like Bogart said What can I say?—I should’ve been more shy? Embarrassed by such an exquisite mulatto Prince? All the Shame and Embarrassment in the world— Couldn’t stop me loving my kid brother all the way!!! Jerome was Darkness—at the Top of the Stairs Jerome was Darkness—Splendor in the Grass Jerome was Darkness—the kind Inge was after Writing his novel—“Good Luck, Mrs. Wyckoff” An old story about—tormented interracial love Whiteboy Bondage—Black Deliverance The more I got into it—sliding up beside him His Mandingo Love—the more I understood What Robert Mapplethorpe—meant when He said—“Once you’ve gone black…”

SMOKE, LILIES AND JADE

SMOKE, LILIES, AND JADE __________________________________________

“Nugent put movement” through its aesthetic paces.” —David A. Gerstner, Queer Pollen: White Seduction, Black Male Homosexuality, and the Cinematic __________________________________________

Bruce Nugent’s earlier work with his Harlem pals takes on an experimental form that strays from the more linear narrative we find in his Jigger narrative on the Niggeratti Manor dayz of the Harlem black queer intelligentsia. __________________________________________

“That is, as inconsistent as his lived experience with movement were, his creative designs on movement were as variable. The story told in “Smoke, Lilies, and Jade,” his contribution to Fire!!, is far less teleological than several of his other essays— and certainly less teleological than Jigger.” —David A. Gerstner, Queer Pollen: White Seduction, Black Male Homosexuality, and the Cinematic __________________________________________

What then is written? What is written even tattooed on the black queer skin of writers like Baldwin and Nugent by both white & black racial homophobia? This ongoing history of brutal, discriminatory, slashed, scarring violence that manifests an ambiguously realized identity for queer blacks? __________________________________________

What is it? What is this inscription process by straight blacks & whites—onto queer black consciousness? For some queer black writers like Baldwin, such discrimination “contains the promise of rape”—sodomitically fertilizing the black queer person onto which a straight whiteness is being “written” not as pain but rather as pleasure even? __________________________________________

Straight black writers resent this complicit homoerotic “cocksucking” behavior & sexual accommodation by writers like James Baldwin—with Eldridge Cleaver, Ishmael Reed and Amiri Baraka in their various PC homophobic critiques & derogatory criticisms of Baldwin’s queer lifestyle. __________________________________________

Black queerness is dreamed-up as a white man’s disease—something slavery instituted on black “Mandingo” desires. Often opining like Toni Morrison & others that queer blackness didn’t exist in Africa—in Beloved even exterminating it in the name of God and Religion. A straight sexual fantasy—ungrounded in historical reality & lacking any archival proof. __________________________________________

Nevertheless Baldwin’s “partisan anti-cocksucker homophobes” are only to be the first to say that other than Baldwin’s homosexuality—James “Jimmy” Baldwin is a great black writer. If he just weren’t a nelly disgusting cocksucker!!! __________________________________________

Wallace Thurmond, after encountering the same queer black-discrimination from both blacks and whites that Baldwin experiences—ends Infants of the Spring and his commitment to the gay Harlem Renaissance on a pessimistic note. The end of the Niggeratti Manor writers commune is the end of the Harlem Renaissance for the young gay black queer intelligentsia. __________________________________________

“With this in mind, Thurman was not inaccurate in his description of the fleurs du mal atmosphere Arabian/Nugent invoked in Harlem culture. As a queer black decadent, Arabian/Nugent’s range of creative expression came to life through “the golden spores of decadent pollen” —David A. Gerstner, Queer Pollen: White Seduction, Black Male Homosexuality, and the Cinematic __________________________________________

Thurman and Nugent saw black desire differently—Thurman’s view was that the promise of white sodomitic rape dragged both black & whites down “into the slime.” __________________________________________

While Nugent & Baldwin were more loose & bohemian about their black queer aesthetic encounters with both queer & straight blacks and queer & straight whites. It was a mutual, decadent seduction that could be seen as an unavoidable aesthetic even perverse desire on both sides. __________________________________________

Nugent tricked with young straight Italian thugs & criminals—since his light complexion enabled him to pass for “white.” Wasn’t this what Charles Bon Sutpen did in Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom? Tricking in the Ole Miss dorms with Henry Sutpen—the supposed heir to the Sutpen’s Hundred Plantation owned by the Delta Bourbon Plantation Master Old Man Sutpen? In other words, Nugent “aestheticizes” such interracial encounters—seeing them not as demise or a loss of macho black manhood, but rather as a transient identity being cross-pollinated & marking the spot where the queer black artist literally dances through a set of creative and homosexualized venues one after the other. __________________________________________

With these sexual, miscegenal, sometimes incestuous encounters, writer-artists like Nugent let various spatial-temporal movements guide their narrative strategies, Nugent constantly reconfiguring the terms of his sexual desire—as well as creative goals & racial identity. __________________________________________

Nugent isn’t frozen in time like Thurmond who sees the failure of Fire & his other works as well as Hollywood ventures—as endgames like he sees the closing of the Niggeratti Manor: as the aesthetic death & demise of the Harlem Renaissance. While actually it’s a movement of aesthetic possibilities. __________________________________________

Hollywood, according to Gerstner’s Queer Pollen: White Seduction, Black Male Homosexuality, and the Cinematic, doesn’t monopolize everything with the tacky cinematic glitter that Thurman sensed in LA—but rather is more like Nugent’s literary imagination which delves into other experimental film possibilities. __________________________________________

Going beyond the straight linear movement of Jigger, his version of Infants of Spring, Nugent turns to his attention to other variable creative writing techniques, as well as painting, drawing & illustration art as he did with Fire. How did he accomplish this with “Smoke, Lilies and Jade”? __________________________________________

Nugent’s prose-poem follows an elliptical course of events, a montage of fragmented and disjointed scenes that unfold while enveloping space and time.” —David A. Gerstner, Queer Pollen: White Seduction, Black Male Homosexuality, and the Cinematic __________________________________________

Nugent begins “Smoke, Lilies and Jade” with an artistic question: __________________________________________

“He wanted to do something…” __________________________________________

And then, Nugent proceeds with a series of brief fragmented disjointed phrases evoking what it’s like to be stoned in bed letting his mind wander in his bedroom. __________________________________________

“…to write or draw…” __________________________________________

Nugent could do either one since he was a writer and artist—thus letting his pleasant, laid-back, mildly hallucinogenic stream of consciousness describe what he’d like to do while actually doing it—transcribing his meandering thoughts later or perhaps while in bed on a notepad or in his own mind’s eye… __________________________________________

“…and think…think of everything…short disconnected thoughts…to wonder…to remember…to think and smoke…” __________________________________________

Weed, cocaine & other drugs were available in Harlem like in the Village & anywhere else in NYC. __________________________________________

“…and was he sophisticated…no because he was seldom bored…seldom bored by anything…and weren’t the sophisticated continually suffering fro ennui…on the contrary…he was amused…amused by the artificiality of naivete and sophistication alike…but maybe that in itself was the essence of sophistication or…was it cynicism…or were the two identical…he blew a cloud of smoke…and the smoke no longer had a ladder to climb…but soon the moon would rise and then he would clothe the silver moon in blue smoke garments…truly smoke was like imagination…” __________________________________________

“This form evokes his homosexual encounter in the story as one that is intermingled with his aesthetically mobile life— that is, his art and cultural milieu.” —David A. Gerstner, Queer Pollen: White Seduction, Black Male Homosexuality, and the Cinematic __________________________________________

“…and they undressed by the blue dawn…Alex knew he had never seen a more perfect being…his body was all symmetry and music…and Alex called him Beauty…Alex admired Beauty’s strength…I like you more than anybody Dulce…long they lay…blowing smoke and exchanging thoughts…Beauty was in the air…in the smoke…a field of blue smoke and black poppies and red calla lilies…pushing aside poppy stems…and saw two strong white legs…dance’s lets…the contours pleased him…his eyes wandered…on past the muscular hocks to the firm white thighs…the rounded buttocks…then to the lithe narrow waist…strong torso and broad deep chest…the heavy shoulders…the graceful muscled neck…Grecian nose and its temperamental nostrils…his hair curly and black and all tousled…and it was Beauty…ad suddenly he stood erect…exultant…and in his hand he held…an ivory…inlaid with red jade…and green…” __________________________________________

“Regardless of whether the cinematic form Nugent uses in his stories, drawings and choreography is avant-garde or Hollywood linear, we invariably come upon his sodomitic fertilization of black and white male bodies through a sentient multiple-media experience.” —David A. Gerstner, Queer Pollen: White Seduction, Black Male Homosexuality, and the Cinematic __________________________________________

According to many Harlem historians, literary critics and others—“Smoke, Lilies and Jade” published in the November 1926 issue of FIRE!! is Bruce Nugent’s most important work. Its homoerotic content was unprecedented in Harlem literature at the time—shocking the old guard Harlem Renaissance elders & setting the Niggeratti Manor young black literary intelligentsia at the cutting-edge of GLBT consciousness long before Allen Ginsberg’s HOWL turned the straight world upside-down with the new SF Renaissance in the late ‘50s & ‘60s. __________________________________________

According to Thomas Wirth, editor of Richard Bruce Nugent: Gay Rebel of the Harlem Renaissance (2002), “Smoke, Lilies and Jade” was most transgressive of all Nugent’s stream-of-consciousness prose compositions. “Written from an explicitly homoerotic perspective, complete with bedroom scenes, it attracted more criticism than any other piece in FIRE!!” __________________________________________

If there is or was such a thing as the Harlem gay muse—then perhaps “Smoke, Lilies and Jade” first defines the scene when & where an artist…and a poet…and a few lines of Bruce Nugent’s poem…let itself or himself be known…to the various cosmopolitan sophisticates & new Harlem literati… __________________________________________

That there in NYC in the twenties…somewhat like Ariel…somewhat like Puck…somewhat like a gutter boy…who loves to play in muck…somewhat like Bacchus…somewhat like Pan…and a way with women…like a sailor man…the Male Muse was letting itself be known…then in 1926…a little ahead of time…before the 1969 Stonewall Riots…that announced another NYC Renaissance…being born once again.

TOWARDS A DINGE POETICS

____________________________

TOWARDS A DINGE POETICS

__________________________________________

“Yet do I marvel at this curious thing: to make a poet black, and bid him to sing.” — Countee Cullen __________________________________________

“Some of the Harlem Renaissance writers found it difficult to decide whether they were black writers or writers who happened to be black.” — Amritjit Singh, The Novels of the Harlem Renaissance

__________________________________________

1. Sound familiar? __________________________________________

2. Since Stonewall, one could ask the same question: are we GLBT poets & writers gay—or are we poets & writers who just happen to be gay? __________________________________________

3. These issues were debated, argued about, discussed, thrashed out in the twenties and thirties. __________________________________________

4. Are GLBT poets & writers today still marred by false dichotomies between claims of art & didacticism? __________________________________________

5. Increasingly is it still relevant to discuss GLBT literature as part of the cultural milieu & revolution that created it? __________________________________________

6. The continuity of Afro-American lit & the Harlem Renaissance since the twenties—are there any connections to gaylit today & the way Stonewall and the SF Gay Renaissance gradually evolved? __________________________________________

7. Advantages today: growing gay audience commercial success doesn’t depend entirely on the whims of straight realism & heterosexual publishers/critics. __________________________________________

8. The Internet (e.g. www.Queerity.com) & the legal dismantlement of DADT & DOMA have channeled the white & straight bourgeoisie middleclass attempts to impose narrow aesthetic/social criticism on GLBT citizens in return for their increased recognition, benefits & legal rights. __________________________________________

9. Many issues confronting Harlem Renaissance intelligentsia & later black activists—are being faced by GLBT poets & writers today. Class conflict continues in all facets of gay/black American life, e.g. GLBT marriages, employment rights & equal spousal benefits. __________________________________________

10. American ‘innocence’—living constantly & increasingly in the present, deprived of the past—or at best reconstructing the past to justify the present = intense preoccupation with the present & blatant ignorance of the past. Does such a narrow, anti-intellectual POV—result in a gay-black provincialism, a dystopian dinge myopia for those of us poets & writers interested in some kind of dinge double-consciousness detente? __________________________________________

11. Flashes of GLBT clairvoyance—a new more faggy subversive James Baldwin "Native Son" or perhaps a revised homoerotic Ralph Ellison "Invisible Man"? An updated queer Blaxploitation classic filmography—"Son of Blacula," an SM comedy "Cotton Comes to Harlem" in drag?

_________________________________________________

12. A somewhat more transgressive post-Stonewall GLBT approach to Netflix New Dinge Cinema? A more Blaxploitative Blogosphere Film Crit informed by a post-Stonewall, post-Harlem, post-AIDS/DADT/DOMA Dinge Poetics equal to William Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha Children of the Dark House.

I COULDN'T HELP IT

I COULDN'T HELP IT

_________________________________

“A black cock on a hulking white man” — Samuel R. Delany The Mad Man __________________________________________

I couldn’t help it — I loved him so much back then Tyrone my boyfriend __________________________________________

I couldn’t help it — I was totally consumed with penis-envy __________________________________________

I couldn’t help it — All I could think about was Tyrone’s ten inches __________________________________________

I couldn’t help it — I got him off so many Times I became it __________________________________________

I couldn’t help it — Call me Son of Dracula thirsty for dinge love

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I couldn’t help it — Scream Blacula Scream baby I needed it bad

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Gimme Mandingo — I was a Teenage Zombie doing the Down-Low

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I couldn’t help it — Voodoo drums in the cane field Darby Jones standing there

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Nude at the crossroads — His dead eyes checking me out tall, black, goodlooking __________________________________________

I couldn’t help it — Drums, Wind, Haitian moonlight Taste of brown sugar __________________________________________

I couldn’t help it — Bon the Beautiful handsome Mulatto brother __________________________________________

I couldn’t help it — If I went down on him there in the Ole Miss dorms

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I got him off — Back during the Civil War up there at the Battle of Shiloh

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Both Bon & Judith — they got married & bred a new Sutpen Dynasty!!! __________________________________________

Brotherly sisterly dinge miscegenation — Sutpen Plantation incest Bad Blood ran thru us

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I couldn’t help it — All the dirty Snopes white boyz had big black penises too!!!__________________________________________

Montgomery Ward Snopes — Pretty Boy Snopes & sullen albino Ike Snopes high yellow too. __________________________________________

Uncle Buck & Buddy — All of the Carothers boyz All the McCaslins __________________________________________

Negro blood ran thru us — Delta Bourbon Dinge Elite our Negritude bloodline & proud Southern heritage

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Yoknapatawpha County — and most of Mississippi Plantation Aristocracy all of us proud Dinge Queens __________________________________________

Mapplethorpe’s portrait — "Man in Polyester Suit" that infamous NYC stud be young endowed Tyrone __________________________________________

I couldn’t help it — I sucked Tyrone off so much & so many times, my whitey Penis turned Black!!!

WHAT AFRICA MEANS TO ME

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WHAT AFRICA MEANS TO ME ________________________________________________

“Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men or regal black What is Africa to me?” —Countee Cullen, “Heritage,” Color ________________________________________________

Africa to me was my black boyfriend—listening to him after sex—my ear on his chest. Listening to his low Darby Jones-Jacques Tourneau voodoo heartbeat—“I Made Love to a Zombie” the story of my life back then. Beating low, slower & slower, then cane field wind beneath the Haiti moon—coming in thru our bedroom window… Brutally intuitive—intimately knowing what I had wanted since I first saw him—in the basement infirmary serving lunch—his mother the cook while he served the meals—a bland lunch for me since my doctor said so—either that or a peptic ulcer bleeding death in the dorm some night—the first time I’d lived away from home—in a huge dormitory of other young men—their southern male beauty tormenting me—deeply in love yet in the closet… ________________________________________________

And there he was—dressed in his white stiff starched tuxedo-like uniform coat—a black Narcissus angel slithering into the dining room—sizing me up right away, knowing me better than I wanted to know myself—aloof, 18-years-old, already a father of two kids, laying this tray in front of me, pausing just long enough for me to know he was there—catching me in the hall, asking me for a loan, which I quickly forked over, sealing my love with a pre-payment…

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So what if I thought he was goodlooking, well-built, even primitive, savage, well-hung? I was just an ignorant honky dirty white boy, I’d never been in bed with a guy, either black or white, but knowing then & there that, yes, indeed, I was not only a sizequeen, something I’d known for a long time. But also something else, something unthinkable, profane, taboo & all that. Each day I lived only for one thing… ________________________________________________

I moved out of the dorm, got a cheap apartment in Tiger Town south of campus, invited him over one night. He got me loaded on some weed—that’s when I saw really just how beautiful he was. He took off his clothes and stood there by the window, letting me glut myself with all I could ogle, this Mandingo man-boy, built like a brick shithouse, not bashful about it, needing some love since his young wife was pregnant again. Soon I was pregnant too, his cumly Delta jizz-jet up my ass & down my throat, doing what he did so well with his wife—bruising my trembling tonsils with his thick Congolese cock, taking his time at it, showing me what it was all about…

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Realizing then, knowing it inch-by-inch, skipping classes to be with him, forgetting myself completely, becoming a miscegenal misanthrope, getting a completely first hand intimate lost knowledge account of Faulkner’s Going Down On Moses, like Uncle Buck buying Percival Brownlee, keeping up the Ike McCaslin’s worst fear, continuing the L.Q.C. Carothers curse into another tainted Southern Decadent generation, a campus dinge queen… He was the real reason—the reason why I checked the Box. The little queer box on the questionnaire—that the draft board made me fill out. Viet Nam was warming up—they needed & got lots of dead young American meat, rotting in the jungles over there, the WWII generation’s war against its own children, intergenerational warfare, to control us, the burgeoning baby boomers, before we wised up, knowing we’d revolt sooner or later, which we did with antiwar protests, marches, the hippie exodus, a whole generation’s diaspora from its VFW fathers… ________________________________________________

I wasn’t just queer—I was in love with a young black man. Not another whitey kid—something much worse than that—they couldn’t believe it. They all looked at me—the sneering army doctor, the pansy psychiatrist, the rude sergeant. I stood there naked, self-conscious & yet I wasn’t ashamed. No guilt or self-loathing plagued me then—I’d already crossed the Rubicon a long time ago. All I could think about was young Tyrone back in the apartment—sleeping in bed when I left for my appointment with America. Africa was on my mind—the rest of the fuckin’ day. _______________________________________________

There I was naked—the epitome of Southern youth. Not only a queer & sizequeen—but also an admitted, unabashed, shameless, wretched dinge queen. Prove it, the psychiatrist said. I pulled outta my billfold a photo of me & Tyrone—both of us in bed nude. I knew a picture was worth a million words—and this one did the trick. The look on their faces—still not believing me. Then they looked down & saw a had an erection—I kissed the photo & my penis got even more swollen. I closed my eyes—the next thing I was out the door…

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“Well?” Tyrone asked—as I came thru the door. He was in bed as usual—smoking a big fat joint. The Cuba boyz back in the dorms had connections—still going back to Havana. I took a toke—and got into bed. All I wanted was to stay there in his arms—and feel my zombie kid breathe in & out. Now I was one of the walking dead too—I no longer lived among the living. At least the straights anyway—that’s what Africa meant to me. Freedom, baby—FREEDOM!!!