No More Words

No More Words
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No More Words
Chicken Queen
God of Adolescence
Two Parisian Gents
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No More Words

“No more words!
I bury the dead in my belly!"
—Arthur Rimbaud

no more words—
not those old tacky
bourgeois str8t
parnassian ones

no more words—
i buried my virgin
bride miss verlaine
a long time ago

i buried poetry—
down inside my
pants, you wanna
see it, honey?

i got tired of it—
being a zit on the
zuite zieitgeist
there in gay paree

God of Adolescence

“god of adolescence”
—Andre Breton

even str8t surrealists—
like miss andre breton
seem to have fallen
under the boy’s spell

if he’d met arthur—
sooner miss breton
would’ve probably come
outta the closet sooner

either that or andre—
would’ve excommunicated
the kid like he did to
monsieur rene crevel

the surrealists were—
such freaks, my dear
their panties in a twist
like the parnassians

Chicken Queen

"I think I used to identify
with Rimbaud and want to
be him. Now I think he
seems like a horrible brat."
—Edmund White

not all literary queens—
have the desire or the
patience to be like paul
verlaine chicken queen

putting up with those—
precocious little pricks
those enfant terrible
juvenile delinquents

nor all gay literati—
into being had by cute
dominatrix parisian
hustler poet types

gay poets maudit—
stoned on absinthe
and hashish for long
years after deluge…

Two Parisian Gents

"deux gentlemen Parisiens"
—The Daily Telegraph

ardennes farmboy—
primitive youth like
djami and paul bowles’
ahmed yacoubi

a long, lanky kid—
miss verlaine impressed
by the turid strength of
his thick bateau ivre

vowels came to him—
hallucinating at night
like whispering sluices
thru dwarfed woods

if only those rooms—
full of dirty daylight
and besotted fucking
could only talk…