Countee Cullen and Queer Theory II

Countee Cullen
and Queer Theory II

Harlem Boyhood

“For some, godfather and goddame
The opulent fairies be;
Dame poverty gave me my name,
And Pain godfathered me”
—Countee Cullen,
“Saturday’s Child,”
Color

I get nostalgic—
For the Harlem Renaissance
Back in the Twenties

Back when NYC—
Was a Refuge for Southern
Diaspora Love

When Smoke, Lilies, Jade—
Comforted Queens like Nugent
Niggeratti Muse

But I be alone—
A helpless Black Closet Case
In Love with White Boyz

I Crossed the Line

“And veins too thin
and blue to show—
what mingled blood
flowed there”
—Countee Cullen,
“Two Who Crossed A Line,”
Color

From where I loved them—
I craved the smell & taste of
Bad dirty white boyz

I couldn’t help it—
My gods & I crossed the line
Mingling with their cum

It hurt to see them—
Erect in bed & haughty
So pale with blue veins

The way they lost it—
Their cute faces distended
Way down to their groins

I forgot their names—
Brooklyn boyz so disdainful,
Greenwich Village tricks

Getting them outta—
Mob neighborhood gangster mind
Be the hardest thing

Now in my Condo—
They drop their macho bullshit
Along with their shorts

The cute proud ones smirk—
A Harlem poet-teacher
Down on his fag knees

Pagan Prayer

“Black men create
this love thing:
a fated argosy
prorogued by words”
—Alden Reimonenq,
“Black Male Cocoons,”
Headrag

I prayed for myself—
Down there on my faggot knees
To be a White Boy

I should know better—
But my pagan heart was mad
I needed White Dick

I needed Kinship—
Their Whitey Family Tree
Flowing inside me

I was just Black Sheep—
I closed my African eyes
And became Whitey

White Boy Slave Masters—
I retrieved my Race thru them
Became Black Jesus

I queered White Pharaoh—
I Became Black Osiris
I be Pagan Dinge

All it took was just—
One squirt of White Boy semen
To be High Yellow

Wisdom Cometh with Cum

“the dirty fingernails;
layers of dingy clothes;
ashy skin and rankness;
smoky and liquored breath”
—Alden Reimonenq,
“The Trade Turns,”
Headrag

I liked him naïve—
Young sullenly insolent
Squirting his cum slow

I liked him stupid—
Snotty-nosed, harelipped chicken
I got him at night

I liked him spastic—
When he looked at me cross-eyed
Smoking a fat joint

I liked him street-wise—
Hustling for a buck or two
I sucked his brains out

He took a whole year—
But now when I think of him
I just simply puke…

For A White Boy

“I have wrapped
my dreams in a
silken cloth”
—Countee Cullen,
“For a Poet,”
Color

I saved his punk cream—
In a pink silk handkerchief
In a golden box

I hid my gay shame—
I clung to the cloth of cum
A moth drawn to flame

With trembling fingers—
I inhaled the smell of him
And fainted again

A handsome white kid—
The handkerchief was still damp
I could taste his jizz

Cramming it down deep—
Inside my Mandingo mouth
The white boy was mine

Niggeratti Condo

“All day long and
all night through,
one thing only must
I do: quench my pride
And cool my blood”
—Countee Cullen,
“Heritage,” Color

My black heritage—
Keeping it in the closet
There at work each day

I can’t let it out—
Surely they’ll find out my
HooDoo VooDoo love

That my mind & heart—
Be a savage cannibal
For forbidden meat

That I crave it bad—
Dirty White Boy jizzy cum
I like the young stuff

I’m in the closet—
I teach Frederick Douglass
Junior High School French

But then late at night—
I turn into Medea
Betrayed Black Woman

White America—
My closety Negro lips
Craves your white rough trade

Fuck the throbbing drums—
My pulsing dark blood within
My gone Congo past

I sleep with White Snakes—
Their pale Nakedness I hate
But I need it Bad

Young ghetto white boyz—
Dark-haired young Italians
Hot hung Hispanics

I laugh at their quaint—
Outlandish heathen old gods
Gimme the young godz

This New Depression—
Makes them desperate for dough
My Cadillac talks

For a hundred bucks—
My Niggeratti Condo
Be a busy place

Smoke, dope, jaded boyz—
I get them loaded real nice
Then I suck them off

Caucasian Cock

“Surely then this flesh
would know yours had
borne a kindred woe”
—Countee Cullen,
“Heritage,” Color

Caucasian cock—
Slide back his cheesy foreskin
It tastes just awful

So tart & ugly—
Father, Son & Holy Dick
Young New York manhood

Getting him off and—
Strangling it to fuckin’ death
My former Masters

Reversing Dred Scott—
The more White boy cum I get
The more he’s my Slave

Butchy buzzcut kid—
My tongue up his tight asshole
Before I fuck him

Yanking his tit-ring—
Getting the Taser dildo
All the way up there

Closet Case

“I am for sleeping
and forgetting all
that has gone before”
—Countee Cullen,
“Requiscam,” Color

I’m all for lying—
Lying still & letting sin
Pass me by each day

But then late at night—
When the summer heat beats down
And I cruise the streets

That’s when I really—
Start lying to myself and
Peruse the Meat Racks

New York’s hot sun sets—
Hopefully to rise no more
But it always does

I’m all for lying—
And forgetting it in bed
What I did last night

The carnal dumb ache—
Desires & groping for love
His spermy godhead

His skin white as snow—
Caucasian angel food cake
His nice whitey dick

His lies worse than mine—
His manhood always locked-up
Only my dinge-key…