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You Just Don't Care At All
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m5gM7ysWxsk
“Incomplete & unaware—
Instinctive—beautiful”
—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 didn’t care—I just didn’t care anymore. I was in love with both of them—the Jones boyz. And they were in love with themselves—Tyrone & Jerome. Jesus christ—I stood outside in the rain. Knowing they were getting it on—I didn’t wanna go in. But I couldn’t help myself—dinge incestuous hot sex drove me fuckin’ crazy. I loved it & hated it—I hated being left out. I ended up with sloppy seconds—I had the faggy white boy blues. I had it bad—I just didn’t care anymore…
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“To round your hips—
Indent your waist
And hollow your buttocks
Above muscled thighs”
—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 wandered up & down the streets at night—Tiger Town in the humid fuckin’ night. But I couldn’t help myself—I just didn’t care at all. How could I do this to myself—fall in love with a pair of dark angels? Wanting both of them so bad—biting my lip & beating off just thinking about them. They were blind to anything else—yet in bed afterwards they just laughed in my face. “Stupid, dumb, fucked-up whiteboy. All you think about is black dick—aint you ever done pussy, faggot breath?” I just didn’t care anymore—what they said or how much they dished me. I was mad for it—I was fucking dick-crazy for both of them. I was the pussy—and they knew it.
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“To sculpt complete
Your torso—all
All but your eyes
Shadowed by buzzcut
Pubes naively disarranged”
—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’d stand in Allen Hall—during rush hour of the godz. In between classes—Absalom, Absalom on my mind. Shreve & Quentin—doing their sex séance. Just like Jerome & Tyrone. Getting stoned all the time—back in our apartment. I just didn’t care anymore—I just didn’t care at all. I’d been reduced to a stream-of-consciousness suicidal Benjy Compson—lost in immediate madness. All I could do was smell them in bed—and get them off when they let me. They knew I didn’t care anymore—they tortured me just to drive me mad. The worst thing was after a hot sixty-nine—Tyrone would kiss me & let Jerome’s cum ooze into my mouth. He knew I loved his younger brother—he loved him too. Twelve inches of dinge love—was nothing to laugh at. How I fuckin’ cried for more…
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“Your thick lips—
So full, so gently straight.
Your embarrassed smile lame,
Spoke in your gaze and I
Read your thoughts & knew
What fears & disbeliefs
And (perhaps) shameful
Hopes you had”
—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 Jerome & Tyrone read my lips—they were good at it. They could read my mind too—they were intuitive & smart about dirty white boyz like me. They knew me better than I knew myself—all I knew was that I had it bad. Yoknapatawpha was running thru me—faster than the Yazoo River, baby. I just didn’t care anymore—I was a Delta decadent straight outta Go Down, Moses. Faulkner was the only writer I could stand to read anymore—Mississippi dinge meat was all I could think about. I stood out in the rain thinking about it—I loitered in the Allen Hall tearooms but the glory holes bored me. I was good at one thing—Going Down on Moses. Two young teen Black Moses boyz—I just didn’t care anymore. I was worse than Delta Bourbon Slave Master L.Q.C. McCaslin—except I was the whiteboy slave on the slave-block. But I just didn’t care anymore—I couldn’t help myself…
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“I saw your eyes—
Slow-slanting out—
The pupils strangely hued
Tangled with lashes
Faint brown, gray, green
Chrome flecked with
Dinge-gold”
—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 didn’t care anymore—I wanted to be Dinge. I wanted to be Black—I wanted to be anything but the faggot who I was. The more I got—the more I wanted to be them. Tyrone & Jerome—the epitome of Deep South dinge chicken love. I’d stand there looking up at the WPA Thirties murals—up there on the walls of Allen Hall. I could feel it—the Huey P. Long Camelot charisma flowing thru me. I stood there at the foot of the looming art deco Louisiana State Capitol Penis so proudly erect—high over the sullen Mississippi above the Kingfish’s grave after tricking at night in the dark bushes at night. Sluggish & slow—I felt my youth ooze thru me along with all the skanky tangy testicular shame of it. But I didn’t care anymore…
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“A midnight iris—
Fragmented light
I read your thought
And softly said—
Come into me now”
—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’m lucky to have got outta Baton Rouge alive—but a part of me never left. I got this dinge doppleganger who’s still down there—what can I fuckin’ say? I feel it ache—I feel it deep inside me. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it—both Tyrone & Jerome. The last I heard they both got married of course—and divorced. Both had kids—naturally or unnaturally both Tyrone & Jerome had a son. The last time I was in town after Katrina—I got more than I expected. I just didn’t care anymore—at least that’s what I thought. Until Jerome’s teenage son knocked at my motel’s door. All of a sudden I started caring again—I got him inside real quick & we got down. I felt so ashamed of myself—his name was Dwayne. Dwayne Jerome Jones—and he’d heard all about me. It cost me though—$100 a big fat wad. But I didn’t care anymore—it be déjà vu dinge, baby………
