Hayward L. Oubre
Gay Slave Narrative
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“It sometimes happens”
—Charles Johnson,
Oxherding Tale
It was a crazy queer slave narrative dream — I woke up with Milk and Moscone digging their fingers into the back of my straining shoulders — feeling the fingernails and pulse-throbs of them and all the other dead fags in America in my bloodstream — men murdered with guns — killed trashed tramped to death — starved stoned to death — thrown off cliffs drowned clubbed impaled — faggots burnt at the stake — gassed in concentration camps — flames faggots torture — I wasn’t just seeing this like a stupid daydream — I was waking up from living it and unliving it — then flashbacking it back to myself, talking to myself, writing it down — not wanting to do it — not wanting to play it again Sam like some crummy rerun of Casablanca — a part of me knowing it was just dream — a skanky slave narrative for fags, queens, hustlers, sugar daddies — another part of me knowing it was as real as “Mandingo” or “Blacula Screams” or “My Baby Is Black” or any of the other lurid ‘60s Blaxploitation movies — except it was my own fucking fagploitation flick this time with me caught up inside it — my own personal gay nightmare slave narrative — the one I always end up in never waking up from — young black male miscegenation with my own mulatto kid brother — my own gay palimpsest slave narrative — infatuated incestuously with my mother’s love child from her second marriage — mommy dearest living with a young handsome black Chicago nightclub saxophonist — his exquisite cumly offspring ending up being my sullen, moody half-brother — his albino skin & cocoa-crème dick — this Peculiar Institution known as Dinge Queen USA — this rather boring victim Narratology of mine with its whitey so-so DADT storyline, its dated DOMA denouement, its burlesque kitschy cabaret act of doom — no longer just Sontag’s Notes on Camp but rather a list of Gay Gulag Archipelago obituaries — the Gay Plague Palimpsest that wipes out a whole generation of gay writers, artists & poets — the slayer of Milk, Moscone & so many other SF activists — the slayer of white, black, chicano, indian, asian gay souls — the Purveyor of the Death Purse — the Lipstick of Death — the Eye-Shadow of Murder — the Mascara of Suicide — the Make-Up Mirror of Reagan — the Hearse that’s come to stay — my own Private Idaho of Paranoia
__________________
“It sometimes happens”
—Charles Johnson,
Oxherding Tale
It was a crazy queer slave narrative dream — I woke up with Milk and Moscone digging their fingers into the back of my straining shoulders — feeling the fingernails and pulse-throbs of them and all the other dead fags in America in my bloodstream — men murdered with guns — killed trashed tramped to death — starved stoned to death — thrown off cliffs drowned clubbed impaled — faggots burnt at the stake — gassed in concentration camps — flames faggots torture — I wasn’t just seeing this like a stupid daydream — I was waking up from living it and unliving it — then flashbacking it back to myself, talking to myself, writing it down — not wanting to do it — not wanting to play it again Sam like some crummy rerun of Casablanca — a part of me knowing it was just dream — a skanky slave narrative for fags, queens, hustlers, sugar daddies — another part of me knowing it was as real as “Mandingo” or “Blacula Screams” or “My Baby Is Black” or any of the other lurid ‘60s Blaxploitation movies — except it was my own fucking fagploitation flick this time with me caught up inside it — my own personal gay nightmare slave narrative — the one I always end up in never waking up from — young black male miscegenation with my own mulatto kid brother — my own gay palimpsest slave narrative — infatuated incestuously with my mother’s love child from her second marriage — mommy dearest living with a young handsome black Chicago nightclub saxophonist — his exquisite cumly offspring ending up being my sullen, moody half-brother — his albino skin & cocoa-crème dick — this Peculiar Institution known as Dinge Queen USA — this rather boring victim Narratology of mine with its whitey so-so DADT storyline, its dated DOMA denouement, its burlesque kitschy cabaret act of doom — no longer just Sontag’s Notes on Camp but rather a list of Gay Gulag Archipelago obituaries — the Gay Plague Palimpsest that wipes out a whole generation of gay writers, artists & poets — the slayer of Milk, Moscone & so many other SF activists — the slayer of white, black, chicano, indian, asian gay souls — the Purveyor of the Death Purse — the Lipstick of Death — the Eye-Shadow of Murder — the Mascara of Suicide — the Make-Up Mirror of Reagan — the Hearse that’s come to stay — my own Private Idaho of Paranoia
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