Snake Noir

Snake Noir

“And, like Baldwin,
he confronted head-on
the erotics, desire, and
danger with which whiteness
seduced him”—David A. Gerstner
“Marlon Riggs,” Queer Pollen

Except with me—it was just the opposite
It was the blackness, snakeness—that seduced me
It wasn’t James Baldwin—a black Oscar Wilde
It wasn’t Chester Himes—Rage in Harlem
It wasn’t Marlon Riggs—Tongues Untied
My tongue was wrapped-up—untied too much.
It was more like—Snake Is and Snake Aint.

It was already a part of me—my dinge half-brother.
Snake noir was my problem—DJ was its name.
I didn’t go to Harlem, Harvard—or Berkeley CA.
I got to know it at home—like the palm of my hand.
And he got to know me—better than he wanted to.
He was hopelessly hetero—I was just the opposite.
Male incest was a test—for both of us.
______________________

I was whitey queer—he was dinge mulatto stud.
After her divorce—mother fled to Chicago for a year.
She fell in love with a young—black saxophonist.
He played in a band—different night clubs.
He got her pregnant—Windy City fucked her good.
Came home for the kid—her rich parents croaked.
That’s how I ended up—with a snake noir brother.

Sharing a home—growing up together.
It’s different that way—the way things work out.
Desegregation was hard on him—high yellow kid.
Because his dick was jet-black—and 10” soft.
He dropped outta school—he couldn’t “pass” easy.
Especially around me—his queer older brother.
What could be worse than that—queer Cain & Able?
__________________________

Everybody in school—all the people in town.
They knew the awful truth—shaking their heads.
They either hated him—back then in the ‘60s.
Or wanted him bad—certain lowlife queens.
Chicks who got off—calling him after midnight.
They were after his bod bad—his hot snake noir.
I lived with it though—I got my lips on it.

DJ had his mother’s—redhead pubes.
He had his father’s—long slinky saxophone penis.
It was a sex-jungle down there—jaded & jizzy.
Prescient prick—since the seventh grade.
That’s when he seduced me—letting me see it.
No eroticized memoir—can describe it right.
His teen torso, erect manhood—skanky snake noir.
____________________

Like a Platt Lynes photo—nude black & white.
Spread-eagled, tied-up in bed—wrists, ankles, rope.
His face turned away—distended like a black jesus.
Refractions of moonlight—down thru Venetian blinds.
Throwing down chiaroscuro—prison-bar shadows.
An arrow-pierced Sebastian—crucified black saint.
Having an orgasm—stoned outta his mind.

Zulu voodoo primal drums—white-trash kid brother.
He was no fucking good—I was even worse.
He may have been dinge noir—all 10” of him.
But I swear to god—DJ glowed in the fuckin’ dark.
His whitey naked body—full of jizzy jouissance.
There in mother’s mansion—after she died.
My queer black identity—his illicit licorice love.
______________________

It was really something—like “A Clockwork Noir.”
Whitey kid brother—pouty young male “Sarah Jane.”
Outta Sirk’s classic soap opera—“Imitation of Life.”
I was Troy Donahue—betrayed, haughty loverboy.
Beating her up in the alley—Lana Turner shrugged.
But queerly just the opposite—I wanted him more.
Imitation vanilla upstairs—dinge down in his shorts.

Certain Hollywood flicks—foreshadowed things.
“Imitation of Life”—became “Imitation of Death.”
Every time DJ came—he had a little death.
Long & drawn-out—excruciating “autoethnographics.”
A lived-autobiographical—cinematic self-portrait.
Full of whitey embarrassment—obsequiousness.
For white-to-black-gaze—my seduction, my shame.
____________________

Halfway between—white-masculinist posing.
And the helpless moment—losing it completely.
Letting me become him—moody, melancholy.
Without restraint—cheap thrills sliding downhill.
That indefinable look on his face—secret looks.
Uncut pink lips—uncut pealed-back foreskins.
Feeling ashamed—that long drained-dry look.

Poised between shame—and shamelessness.
D was full of it—heterosexual self-pity afterward.
Half of him felt blue—I felt black & blue myself.
The other half—subterfuged way down deep.
No deceptive gestures—when intimacy came.
Nothing to hint at—just the rude bare thing.
He wouldn’t look—at me afterwards.
_________________________

After the first time—he hated me.
I caught him in the shower—beating off.
I got him when he was vulnerable—and helpless.
Shooting his brains outs—sliding down to the floor.
He oozed a tablespoon in me—all the way down.
He couldn’t help it—and I couldn’t either.
I could feel his pounding heart—thru his 10 inches.

After that—snake noir took over.
It ruled our lives—the hormones made us do it.
He shed crocodile tears—big boo-hoo badboy ones.
He was more like Sarah Jane—than I was.
I played the shocked Troy Donahue pretty good.
Simply shocked that—Sarah Jane was dinge.
DJ & her trying to pass—him with his black dick!
________________________

It was the perfect marriage—black & whitey.
I was the young white trash—him “droog” hoodlum.
DJ butchy top husband—me the faggy bottom.
A violent acting-out affair—teen drive-in romance.
My petite MG lips—his rude, garish Cadillac fins.
His older brother was a slut—and she knew it.
His Godzilla libido—his Mighty Joe Young spluge.

There was always—this snake noir voiceover.
The Chicago blues culture—DJ’s family roots.
The way it migrated—from Mississippi & Tennessee.
Up from Louisiana & Texas—along the rails.
In the clubs—dialogues between cultures.
The creative energies—drawing mother there.
DJ her “love-child”—rooting him in black culture.
_______________________

Snake noir back then—what was it? What is it?
For me it was—the way DJ looked at me.
The way he didn’t look at me—turning away.
Not wanting to see—the look on my face.
The way I looked at him—made him ashamed.
The way I looked at him—shamelessly.

My lips, my face—had that queer look for sure.
I had queer young black identity—on my mind.
It wasn’t just—cinematic or aesthetic.
No de facto ideological shit—PC meant nothing.
I wanted to be him—to be his ten inches.
I wanted his queer pollen—cross-pollinate me!
I had that headhunter, cannibal look—watch out!
________________________

It scared him tho—gangster love was that way.
He could feel me—crawling up & down his spine.
I had that maneater look—hungry for him bad.
From his curled toes—up to his sprained brain.
He was so vulnerable—when he went spaz.
So lizardy & lanky—Ejac fading into black.
Sullenly losing it—sullenly he could be had.

Cross-pollination—violently vulgar sometimes.
The more unruly, rude, stealthy—the better.
I got it all the way going down—then back up.
Lucky I wasn’t his half-sister—fucked but good.
I would’ve got pregnant—just like mother did.
Greedy for snake noir—gimme that babypaste.
Gimme your family tree—empower me, baby.