Miss Cocteau / Miss Williams
"Poets don't draw.
They untie handwriting
and then knot it up again
in a different way"
—Jean Cocteau, Drawings vi
Miss Cocteau—
Belle Époque Parisian queen
Unties Streetcar Named Desire
Knots it up in a different way.
Black belly dancers—
Naked from the waist up
Gyrating in background as
Stanley rapes Blanche!!!
Miss Williams—
Deep South Dixie queen
Simply shocked, my dear!!!
By such crudities…
Cocteau and Williams—
Akin mostly to Orpheus
Via his human Vulnerability
Both creepy and fragile.
Gay poètes maudits—
Hated by each generation
Str8t Surrealists in France
Str8t Jesus Freaks in USA
Such is Orphée’s fate—
Stoned by str8t Maenads
Echoing Eurydice’s warning
We are the cursed gay poets.
Dark Muses weave for us—
Wreaths of pubes & laurels
Thornier than young thorns
Manly moist moustaches!
Ask the child idiot—
Village Orpheus descending
The chain-gang dogs chasing
The runaway god to his death.
We are the Fugitive Kind—
We flee the annoyed Breeders
Trapped in their Buñuel Hell
By Exterminating Angels.
Cocteau’s myths slither—
They slither, slide like snakes
Raymond Radiguet dies young
Descends like Orphée down.
Radiguet as Heurtebise—
Coming back for Cocteau thru
A liquid mirror driving a sleek
Luxury Rolls Royce convertible.
The Prince of Death—
Speaks to Cocteau thru an
Avant-garde radio transmitting
Automatic surreal messages.
Cocteau and his chauffeur—
Cruise the Left Bank Paris
Cruising late at night in the
Saint-Germain-des-Prés dark.
“The boyz sing with claws”—
The young hustlers, prostitutes
Become immortal when they
Lose it & die in Cocteau’s arms.
Squirting young Orphée—
Juicy lobs onto the windshield
Dying profusely in red leather
Rolls Royce smooth backseats.
Cocteau’s terrible crimes—
Taking advantage of young teenage
Jouissance and penetrating a chicken
Universe where he didn’t belong…
_______________
Miss Williams plots Orpheus—
In a more Southern genteel way
“I don’t know nothin about babies”
But that’s just a cotton-pickin lie.
The boyz of Cavafy know—
And so do the View Carre hustlers,
Mardi Gras young men at Lafitte’s,
They all know Miss Williams well.
Orpheus myths come & go—
Like pretty boyz of Michelangelo
Like Caravaggio young cocks
Roman Springs of Mrs. Stone…
Miss Williams & Miss Cocteau—
Living Lies always telling the truth:
Being gay is a lie for Str8ts but
For fags it’s Long Live the Queen!
Young French Creole Cajun cum—
Delta Bourbon bad boyz in bayous
Call me a vain nauseous Verlaine
Sucking off sullen moody Rimbauds.
Those young men back then—
My own “Streetcars Named Desire”
I met Tennessee Williams once
A lonely dark New Orleans bar.
He recited for me a poem—
The “Night of the Iguana” dirge:
“How calmly does the olive branch
Observe the sky begin to blanche”
A sad, melancholy Southern man—
His sweet, musical drawl enchanting
Evoking how many dark angels above
Us in that Canal Street dirty dive?
“How calmly does the olive branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer
With no betrayal of despair”
For me Orphée obscures—
The zenith of his life above
By how far he descends down
Into the mud & muck of today.
A second story commencing—
A gay chronicle no longer gold
A bargaining with death & mold
A final plummeting into the gutter.
An intercourse designed—
For boyz of a golden kind
Whose native primal jizz is
Both obscene & divinely thick.
Rotten like a ripe fruit—
Fallen down from the branch
With a little wiggle and a cry
Without a prayer and full of
Both betrayal and despair.
Oh boyish Orphée courage—
Could you not as well select
A second place to dwell inside
This frightened heart of me?
"Poets don't draw.
They untie handwriting
and then knot it up again
in a different way"
—Jean Cocteau, Drawings vi
Miss Cocteau—
Belle Époque Parisian queen
Unties Streetcar Named Desire
Knots it up in a different way.
Black belly dancers—
Naked from the waist up
Gyrating in background as
Stanley rapes Blanche!!!
Miss Williams—
Deep South Dixie queen
Simply shocked, my dear!!!
By such crudities…
Cocteau and Williams—
Akin mostly to Orpheus
Via his human Vulnerability
Both creepy and fragile.
Gay poètes maudits—
Hated by each generation
Str8t Surrealists in France
Str8t Jesus Freaks in USA
Such is Orphée’s fate—
Stoned by str8t Maenads
Echoing Eurydice’s warning
We are the cursed gay poets.
Dark Muses weave for us—
Wreaths of pubes & laurels
Thornier than young thorns
Manly moist moustaches!
Ask the child idiot—
Village Orpheus descending
The chain-gang dogs chasing
The runaway god to his death.
We are the Fugitive Kind—
We flee the annoyed Breeders
Trapped in their Buñuel Hell
By Exterminating Angels.
Cocteau’s myths slither—
They slither, slide like snakes
Raymond Radiguet dies young
Descends like Orphée down.
Radiguet as Heurtebise—
Coming back for Cocteau thru
A liquid mirror driving a sleek
Luxury Rolls Royce convertible.
The Prince of Death—
Speaks to Cocteau thru an
Avant-garde radio transmitting
Automatic surreal messages.
Cocteau and his chauffeur—
Cruise the Left Bank Paris
Cruising late at night in the
Saint-Germain-des-Prés dark.
“The boyz sing with claws”—
The young hustlers, prostitutes
Become immortal when they
Lose it & die in Cocteau’s arms.
Squirting young Orphée—
Juicy lobs onto the windshield
Dying profusely in red leather
Rolls Royce smooth backseats.
Cocteau’s terrible crimes—
Taking advantage of young teenage
Jouissance and penetrating a chicken
Universe where he didn’t belong…
_______________
Miss Williams plots Orpheus—
In a more Southern genteel way
“I don’t know nothin about babies”
But that’s just a cotton-pickin lie.
The boyz of Cavafy know—
And so do the View Carre hustlers,
Mardi Gras young men at Lafitte’s,
They all know Miss Williams well.
Orpheus myths come & go—
Like pretty boyz of Michelangelo
Like Caravaggio young cocks
Roman Springs of Mrs. Stone…
Miss Williams & Miss Cocteau—
Living Lies always telling the truth:
Being gay is a lie for Str8ts but
For fags it’s Long Live the Queen!
Young French Creole Cajun cum—
Delta Bourbon bad boyz in bayous
Call me a vain nauseous Verlaine
Sucking off sullen moody Rimbauds.
Those young men back then—
My own “Streetcars Named Desire”
I met Tennessee Williams once
A lonely dark New Orleans bar.
He recited for me a poem—
The “Night of the Iguana” dirge:
“How calmly does the olive branch
Observe the sky begin to blanche”
A sad, melancholy Southern man—
His sweet, musical drawl enchanting
Evoking how many dark angels above
Us in that Canal Street dirty dive?
“How calmly does the olive branch
Observe the sky begin to blanch
Without a cry, without a prayer
With no betrayal of despair”
For me Orphée obscures—
The zenith of his life above
By how far he descends down
Into the mud & muck of today.
A second story commencing—
A gay chronicle no longer gold
A bargaining with death & mold
A final plummeting into the gutter.
An intercourse designed—
For boyz of a golden kind
Whose native primal jizz is
Both obscene & divinely thick.
Rotten like a ripe fruit—
Fallen down from the branch
With a little wiggle and a cry
Without a prayer and full of
Both betrayal and despair.
Oh boyish Orphée courage—
Could you not as well select
A second place to dwell inside
This frightened heart of me?
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