CORDELIA'S CRUDE YOUNG BROTHER

___________________________________________________________________________ Cordelia’s Crude Young Brother ___________________________________________________________________________ “Physically, if not mentally, Cordelia was a potential prostitute…” —Wallace Thurman, Cordelia The Crude Fire!!! November 1926 ______________________________________________________________________ cordelia’s young—brother wasn’t a cheap tramp he be high class stuff. in the balcony—the roosevelt theater on 145th street. he was quite blasé—yet very mercenary in “nigger heaven.” up there in the dark—watching hollywood big stars on the silver screen. he was just sixteen—but tres masculine mature up there in the rear. mos’ of des’ sheiks—felt him up ‘cause he was hung he be mandingo. both physically and—mentally kane the crude was innocent, blasé kane wasn’t quite yet—a wanton mercenary he was just horny the moral import—of his promiscuity persuaded him tho when some guy up there—after a quickie blowjob slipped him twenty bucks. kane’s naïve lack of—keen discrimination changed quickly to rich men “twenty bucks” he’d say—getting rid of the riff-raff then his pants came down kane soon discovered—a lucrative profession as “bijou” hustler in the balcony—the roosevelt theater seventh avenue a cheap ticket date—near 145th street could make a nice bundle the foul-smelling depths—her favorite movie shrine hustling the darkness he’d pretend to sleep—they’d slouch down in the next seat press their leg to his soon down on their knees—getting what they wanted bad his big salami the high-yellow ones—with their sticky plastered hair silk shirts, dirty underwear they were the choice ones—some of them taking him back fancy hotel room kane was sixteen— undisciplined & yet willing half-literate kid south carolina—runaway from six brothers and sisters back home sick of raising pigs—hitchhiked to harlem instead a trick of the trade kane wore a head-rag more like a sultan’s turban a regal chicken i lived in a dumpy—cold walk-up tenement flat on 144th street a dismal building—between lenox & fifth ave crooked, creaking stairs they had his pants down—before they reached the top floor four flights up, the rear animal kisses—he was used to manhandling if they had some bucks he met bruce nugent—one saturday lenox night a house-rent party red smoke filled the room—he was loaded on gin & weed guys were mobbing him nugent moved quickly—took the lean-hipped pimply-faced kid back to his place in his studio—the niggeratti manor had kane’s clothes off fast but didn’t make him—just had him pose in the nude painting his portrait bruce was an artist—not the usual dicty with twenty fast bucks bruce painted the walls—nobody had ever paid attention to him bruce wrote poems too—he sat at the typewriter kane was blown away these were new negroes—dinge intelligentsia what were they all like? kane moved in with bruce—he met thurmond & jackman they got him writing some coke & some weed—started it coming outta him carolina cum except it somehow—oozed into words on paper something primitive was it african—pent-up & chained inside him how could that be true? miscegenation—and how much slave-master’s blood flowed down thru his vein? whatever it was—harlem men seemed to like it chicken ten inches soon he was tricking—outta bruce nugent’s gaudy artist’s studio they were curious—why bruce always stayed up there alone now with me i don’t know either—after we’d make love he’d paint he’d paint all night long the urban ghetto—its vast harlem night silence descending on him my eyes used to be—fixed blinded by the city my lips closed & mute i didn’t know words—i was immune to syntax until i met bruce and then that one night—posing in his studio i realized it… i didn’t know why—my phantom formed on the wall was it my portrait? harlem was asleep—gargantuan skyscrapers loomed thru the window and bruce were busy—painting me sleeping in bed carolina chicken i dreamed i was lost—i was entombed & entranced a ghetto sand-dune when i got loaded—the lemony-tart tangy knotted root of me too hot for kissing—he mixed it with his pastels painting me on walls suffused with my sperm—natal babypaste manhood my navel cord gushing up there on the walls—once intangible & vague seminal portrait

LA MARSEILLAISE CHICKEN

Marseillaise Chicken ______________________________

La Marseillaise, Detail from the Eastern Face
of the Arc De Triomphe, 1832-35, and the rather
lewd facade at the Baton Rouge Louisiana State Capitol
(1931-1934) by Francois Rude ________________________________________________________

Francois Rude’s (1784-1855) exquisitely homoerotic “La Marseillaise” sculpture on the Arc of Triumph dedicated to the French Revolution—also artfully gracing the front façade of Huey P. Long’s magnificent modern sweeping Art Deco /Streamlined Moderne skyscraper capitol looming over Baton Rouge and the Mississippi River. There I stood, amazed & awed by the naked revolutionary youth, flaunting his male beauty for all to behold. To behold & lust after as I did, there in front of that magnificent Depression Era steel & limestone phallic monstrosity typifying Huey P. Long’s egomaniacal size-queen Louisiana dreams—gunned down as a Senator deep in his own capitol’s magnificent bowels, sullen bullet holes still lurking in the sad walls, his body buried in the garden grounds, an infamous tricking place for shocking midnight gay rendezvous nightlife, how fitting & proper for a Louisiana blowjob temple, sucking off a trick, as I gazed up at the highlighted monument to the Kingfish’s glorious dreams & dashed Camelot aspirations. I was there groveling in the darkness, worshipping what I worshipped only so well, an olive-skinned Creole youth I’d picked up in the bus station that tragic night in November 1963—when all I could think about was failed revolutions, grandiose Camelot dreams done in by too much blind ambition & great expectations, something I didn’t suffer from down there on my humble knees, the kid manhandling my humble attempts at polite oral intercourse, treating my mouth like some gauche Popeye or rude Alabama Red fucking whore Temple Drake silly, way up there in Memphis in skanky Miss Rebus’ dingy old whorehouse, no doubt about it, I suffered no disillusionment or fatal romantic denouement, preferring instead to gag & swallow the runny awful-tasting juice from the suddenly severed crawdaddy’s engorged head, milking with my pouty lips the rough-trade Creole kid’s huge veiny cock— down to the last whimpering jizzy jerk, knowing all too well the excruciating tragedy of so many Creole-Camelot cumly French revolutions…later gazing up at Francois Rude’s rude French chicken up on the capitol’s classy façade entrance, glowing in the moonlight, as I reached up & touched it, with my still quivering spermy tongue, the idol of the Arc of Triumph, the cold stony statue’s secret endowment, the tragic treasure & the reason for my decadent downfall ever since…

MY BABY IS BLACK!!! (1961)

MY BABY IS BLACK!!! (1961)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jy-zVlB4mvA

_________________________________

"The hypothetical element

of such writing hesitant

at the edge of a powerful

orality, and yet composing

with it (we are far from

the spoken language)”

—Edouard Glissant,

Faulkner, Mississippi

The big black snake torpid & twisty—thick & black like a water moccasin down south all he needed was—some fangs & a pair of eyes to be a penis snake. it wasn’t that big—only ten brooding inches voodoo carib long it had a pink head—it needed a nice girlfriend not just a queer hand conduit of shame—pulling back uncut foreskin tiny black wrinkles untouchable meat—except for immediate mandingo love appreciation “hallelujah, lord!”—the black preacher cried each time that the snake got off the big black thick snake—it had a life all its own a creole night thing my zombie boyfriend—darby jones at the crossroads deep in the dark cane drums in the background—standing nude under the moon black african god voodoo love child it was unearthly—the way the snake slithered down the side of his leg a normal teenage—innocent adolescent mandingo moment then suddenly dark—moody sullen ancient male snake god the next it made my knees weak—in the middle of the night sleeping with the kid he had these wetdreams—i mopped up his slick stomach tonguing congo cum fags wanted him bad—he began catching their eye bulging just like mine there in the tea room— the one with the glory hole upstairs allen hall he was always scared—afraid when he stuck it thru glory hole’s orifice some whitey crazy—would give him a good blowjob and then cut it off he didn’t want to—see their faggoty faces how they wanted it becoming the snake it wasn’t easy—it was hard most of the time he couldn’t help it he grew up real fast—young male hormones flowing thru him like a river he couldn’t help it— it had a life all its won he became zombie he became possessed—his young african penis taking him over okay with me tho—i liked walking with zombies and sucking them off he needed it bad—smoking weed all the time just made it a lot worse he limped with each tray—his white waiter’s uniform he couldn’t help it self-consciously—looking away from me there cafeteria his mother the cook—cooking infirmary food her son the waiter after the first time—moved into my apartment there in tiger town my baby is black! i began thinking—that maybe i was in love bad seed flowed thru him sacred and profane—it was so strong i fainted it tasted awful his asshole, armpits—his cheesy negro foreskin his negritude cum it was just awful—i just couldn’t get enough i felt so ashamed i tried to stop it—but that old black magic kept coming back again. down in new orleans—at this dirty movie house watched this porno flick “my baby is black!!!”—about a paris white chick who fell for this black it was a skanky story—she ended up pregnant with this black guy’s kid. the delivery—the doctor smokes cigarettes the nurses are shocked aghast at the kid—what drive-in theater schmaltz “my baby is black!!!” she gives birth to this—pretty little black baby what did she expect? and the audience?—back during integration trembling with disgust? at first just sleazy— french quarter movie houses now on internet each time i got him—i swallowed his black baby down to the last drop fifty years later on the internet— watching it 50 years later so very campy at the time back then—going to lsu living there in tiger town the zeitgeist was tense— it was forbidden romance my baby was black my mulatto prince—my young handsome dinge boyfriend getting all i could i was queer for him—how many black baby wads i sucked outta him? my young black lover—built like a dinge apollo a black osiris the mississippi— my sluggish egyptian nile river lover back in the sixties—we’d get loaded like hippies then i got him off who knows how many—squirmy runny black babies i sucked outta him pheromones flowing—his armpits stinky & damp legs around my neck spraining his neck he sprained his neck lots—banging against the headboard going spaz real bad it hurt really nice—like a charley horse only much worse than just that it hurt so bad that—he fainted while still cuming his brown eyes closed tight nothing like a spaz—losing himself all the way becoming just dick that’s when oral sex—becomes perfect dick worship all the fucking way he became mandingo—a dick with a pair of legs an inch-long dick-slit his tight flexing hips—fecundating full of sperm i drained the kid dry the earth’s axis tilts—sucking off a young zombie a casual god

HIPPIE DAYZ, DINGE NIGHTZ

HIPPIE DAYZ, DINGE NIGHTZ

_____________________________________

“Black men create

this love thing: a

fated argosy

prorogued

by words”

—Alden Reimonenq,

“Black Male Cocoons,”

Milking Black Bull

Cant’ Go Back nobody told me— no whitey fag turning back once i fell in love it wasn’t simple— once I went black there was no turning back, man i already knew— or at least felt it that way back in the ‘60’s i fell in love with— curvy muscularity his black bulginess jet-black, slippery— gluing my quentin queer lips to bon’s young maleness Tiger Town Apartment Plenty of egg yolk— After the draft board found out Vaseline blackness There was no excuse— Not to get loaded each day And get him off nice Dumpy apartment— There in back of a bookstore A student ghetto I shrugged off “whitey" Lots of Acapulco gold Into dinge chicken My tongue hanging out— Tiger town long dayz & nights I almost flunked out Campus Dinge Romance what a nice young piece— erection, penis envy uncut impulses every day shameless— black licorice & pink head sliding back foreskin halloween tricking— tricking & treating negro my cute dinge boyfriend he worked as waiter— his mother the cook at the school infirmary i went to classes— still tasting his negritude there in allen hall Gay Mardi Gras once i caught on to— how a mardi gras drag queen crisscrosses the quad how to recognize— my french quarter gay sisters how to betty davis how to torture blanch— upstairs in her wheelchair with rat under glass view carré bitchy— showing off my dinge lover sipping mint juleps pickled pig-feet lips— tainted bougainvillea twisty veiny arms Allen Hall those lovely ‘30s murals— gracing the busy hallways so tres nostalgic time stood still back then— a huey p. long banana republic deep south denouement thirty years later— bullet holes still in the walls the state capitol ancient carib—cotton, sugar cane empire run by the slave trade and there i was now—me naked on the slave block my turn to be slave Miss Faulkner Knows the pecan trees leaned— the magnolia trees moaned the old oaks ached bad all my books mildewed— as i lied dying back then somnambulant lit he tasted bitter— he tasted both sweet & sour he was so moody… he be charles bon— seancing him back in time delta dinge romance yoknapatawpha— pascagoula gulf breezes mississippi muse Self Fellatio my young black lover— 18-year-old hedonist giving himself head my dinge narcissus— in love with himself so vain i made him share it no more wasting it— no more masturbating it no more perversion i wanted it bad— flexing his young black beauty fine mandingo meat he didn’t want to— that made it even better the way he struggled Hoodoo VooDoo Boyfriend long before i read— ishmael reed’s poetry his mumbo jumbo like i had the hots— just looking at his handsome young writer’s photo he be tall, lanky— like “i walked with a zombie” (1943) jacques tourneau’s black stud standing nude, erect— out there in the cane field night there at the crossroad anaconda dick— he made me get down suck it drums in the background James Baldwin a lot of black men— ended up there in paris dinge diaspora queeny james baldwin— butchy chester himes as well richard wright there too paris kinky heads— weren’t bowed in suppression like back in the states new thoughts burnt to words— cotton comes to harlem and gay paris as well dinge writer exiles— why go back to police state? only whitey hell… Mississippi Muse i could feel it deep— down by the levee at night along river road a southern calmness— old black magic taking root down past the cane fields that’s where i parked it— the baby-blue cadillac my mother gave me it was a gas-hog— a garish ’59 monstrosity clunky with sleek fins with these big chrome tits— like jayne mansfield’s limousine her fatal death car Going Down On Moses i knew already— i’d read my mother’s ledger her chicago lover my brother’s father— mulatto alto sax player her nightclub lover her dumb first husband— my deadbeat no-good father divorced her & split incest nothing new— miscegenational cum his name was tyrone so i was ready— for my new dinge loverboy all black ten inches Beauchamp Baccalaureate no black studies then— mid-60s integration on campus back when the viet nam war— rotc mandatory pimping fascismo creative writing— no mfa program yet ginsberg forbidden along with whitman— no room in the straight canon beatnik decadence the delta journal— i fell for the cute black guy editor in chief Snopes Literature william faulkner tho— the yoknapatawpha guide into underground like cocteau’s orphee— heurtebise sleek rolls royce thru liquid mirror down to see miss dis— black leather motorcycle escort down to hell i was a snopes kid— hare-lipped white trash pinhead a tod browning freak up there in memphis— miss reba’s whore house my home alabama red!!! Pulp Fiction Poetry it didn’t take long— storytelling a “fixup”* sanctuary schmaltz faulkner needed bucks— rowan oaks be expensive short stories for sale pastiche & parody— quilting queer notes together later as novels then to dark oaks— son of dracula (1943) lon chaney’s swan song queen zimba the witch— evelyn ankers my fag hag louise allbritton…

__________________

*fixup—“a term used by A. E. Van Vogt to describe a book made up of previously published stories fitted together—usually with the addition of newly written or published material—so that they read as a novel” —John Clute & Peter Nichols The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction

The Politics of Reading Faulkner

The Politics of Reading Faulkner
___________________________________________

Reading Faulkner

“an attenuated form of
sibling incest in which
taboos or race, region,
and class are defied”
—Karl Zender, “The Politics
of Incest,” Faulkner and
the politics of Reading

like the gym story—
the way the deep south entered
my imagination

triggering my id—
with domestic anecdotes
there in my closet

faulkner’s novels came—
creeping into me thru the
politics of reading

an old gay barber—
at the air base by the pool
the officer’s club

sensing i was gay—
my father stationed down there
in louisiana

shreveport way up north—
in redneck territory
unlike new orleans

cutting my hair and—
telling this story of
a baton rouge gay

they murdered this fag—
throwing him off the big bridge
into the mississippi

naturally I freaked—
gay murder stories weren’t my
cup of tea back then

then in baton rouge—
there on campus next story
the gay queer gym coach one

the one about the—
guy going down on the young
young janitor kid

that’s how southern lit—
with its storytelling ways
told me gay folk tales…

after that it was—
miss faulkner’s turn reading me
like me reading her

we’d have séances—
like quentin & shreve there in
the cold harvard dorms

TSATF—
then absalom, absalom
entering the past

faulkner retelling—
quentin’s story just for me
bon & henry’s too

knowing that I was—
tres gay like quentin compson
hots for dalton ames

knowing that I was—
into miscegenal love
like buck & billy

knowing that I had—
a mulatto kid brother
like charles bon

a writer’s oeuvre—
a lifelong writing project
of storytelling

writers change with time—
faulkner’s despair grew deeper
he mourned the deep south

attack or praise it—
“I don’t hate the South”
love it or hate it…

the tragedy of—
male psychic power &
imperialism

the déclassé jim bond—
judith sutpen as victim
roth’s young black lover

the white male psyche—
the whole male-dominated
social order still…

Writing Faulkner

“the chinks and cracks
of masculinity, the fissures
of male identity and
the repression of phallic
discourse”
—Terresa De Laurentis,
“Feminism and Faulkner,”
Faulkner Journal 4 1999

he could write again—
he began listening to
benjy, quentin, caddy

they spoke to him late—
in the rowan oaks darkness
sipping his whiskey

a delta autumn—
calmness helped him write again
rereading himself

i’ve been there as well—
reading my family ledgers
like ike in the dark

they told a story—
like young roth edmund’s story
about his lover

she came to the camp—
tennie jim’s granddaughter
there with all the men

isaac with his own—
troubled miscegenal past
his own dinge ledgers

the old blood story—
the l.q.c. mccaslin curse
running thru them all

the incest motif—
imagined by miss shelley
“laon and cythna”

“siblinghood” bleeding—
into dinge brotherhood, sex
there in tiger town

Living Faulkner

“Old man,” she said,
“have you lived so long
and forgotten so much
that you don’t remember
anything you ever knew
or even heard about love?”
—William Faulkner,
Go Down, Moses

i was like isaac—
i was like jacob wrestling
with young dark angels

getting into bon—
sexual racial taboos
delta male bonding

zender mentions how—
absalom written during
popular front heydays

the freudian left—
pushing against fascism
spanish civil war

faulkner donating—
absalom manuscript for
auction to raise dough

against the nazis—
for the spanish loyalists
(see blotner’s bio)

me in tigertown—
during the Vietnam war
living with two blacks

the gay hippie left—
my answer to postwar angst
war economy

fascism back then—
iraq, libya, afghan now
the same old story

the same old story—
nothing really has changed much—
tragic male psyche

storytelling it—
thru all his gothic novels
delta noir despair

faulkner writing it—
male imperialism
does it ever end?

DINGE QUEEN BLUES

DINGE QUEEN BLUES
_____________________________

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AIPe-aKj8Q&feature=autoplay&list=ULxoUC6ebvviQ&index=10&playnext=1

blackness full of jive—
inarticulate whiteness
words just can't describe.

whiteness full of shit—
closet dinge queens on the prowl
naked negritude

i knew it back then—
ancient deep south taboo
rumored in gym class

there at lsu—
before integration back
then in the sixties.

out of the blue—
cruising a naked guy in
in the gym class showers.

the kid looked at me—
he said there was this coach
who was a dinge queen.

got caught in the gym—
sucking off a janitor
a cute young black guy.

why would he tell me—
something like that just to put
down my being queer?

equating faggot—
with negritude in the gym
a coach nonetheless?

it didn’t work tho—
we went ahead & had sex
he let me do him.

it was an old gym—
had been around for years since
huey p. long dayz.

a gone camelot—
thirties sad nostalgia
like with kennedy.

and then when he came—
the kid called me the n-word
i was simply shocked.

a guilty pleasure—
made me shoot my wad as well
i became negro.

i felt primitive—
like some voodoo hoodoo queer
overcome by dinge.

later the campus—
got integrated back then
in the mid-sixties.

i fell for this kid—
a student editor of the
delta lit journal.

hazard wildman was—
the faculty adviser
there in allen hall.

a gay professor—
from mobile who liked my
gay poetry then.

i was no ginsberg—
howl had been published way then

in san francisco (1957)

and 10 years later—
imitating his free verse style
delta published me.

then gay sunshine press—
put out “chicken” & “size queen”
i be fag poet…

but always back there—
in my darkest closet mind
i knew who i was…

the story about—
the coach & the janitor
always haunted me….

i knew in my heart—
neil cassidy just wasn’t
enough man for me.

jack kerouac too—
these white guyz that ginsberg loved
they just weren’t for me.

what gave it away—
was living all those years in
the dormitories.

the janitors were—
naturally were all negro men
a job for young blacks.

i fell for this guy—
in the south stadium dorm
he was beautiful.

each & every morning—
he unlock my door & would
empty wastebaskets.

soon i skipped classes—
laid in bed waiting for him
nude naturally.

it didn’t take long—
to get him in bed with me
young black orpheus.

he lock the door and—
take off all his fuckin’ clothes
i went down on him.

i craved his dinge wads—
they were runny & nasty
and i rimmed him too.

all i wanted was—
to become him when he came
the cute mandingo

i was the gay coach—
the one in the gym who loved
the black janitor.

i be a dinge queen—
i picked him up after work
i needed him bad.

we’d drive down to the—
levee and make out at night
mississippi cum.

i couldn’t help it—
there weren’t any black studies
programs on campus.

deep south in turmoil—
desegregation raged all
over dixie land.

the viet nam war—
would get you if you flunked out
dead in the jungle.

it was a struggle—
keeping my grade point up there
doing the down-low…

they tried to draft me—
i told them i was homo
“so what?” they just shrugged.

i told them i was—
going to bed with a young
“nigger” janitor…

the psychiatrist—
had a nervous breakdown then
got rid of me fast.

yes, i checked the “box”—
and all hell broke loose for me
the box said “dinge queen.”

and so that was that—
i was the scourge of the earth
a social outcast.

but i gave a shit—
i took jerome on a trip
down to mardi gras.

i wined & dined him—
thanked him, kissed his nice black ass
for saving my life.

from then on it was—
like we were married man & wife
he was my whole life.

i moved off-campus—
got an apartment for us
there in tiger town.

we smoked lots of dope—
my poetry got better
hoodoo voodoo love…

africa blessed me—
he taught me gumbo cookin’
his mother liked me.

things slowed down for me—
he had a younger brother
he moved in with us.

i kept it secret—
nobody needed to know
how happy we were.

it took a long time—
i was in no hurry to
graduate dontchaknow?

it took 100 years—
and gawd knows how many pints
delta dinge love jizz!!!

GUILT, DESIRE AND LOVE

GUILT, DESIRE AND LOVE
_________________________

Romancing Tyrone

“At the dark street corner
where Guilt and Desire
are attempting to stare
each other down”
—James Baldwin,
“Guilt, Desire and Love,”
Jimmy’s Blues

I repent it all—
As if it does any good.
Just another lie.

Just one of many—
I’ve told, retold & believed
Lies I told Tyrone.

The big lie that he—
Would never ever believe
Even tho I tried…

That I had never—
Slept with another Negro
Young man just like him.

And it was so true—
Cross my legs & hope to die
Just dirty white boyz…

Dirty White Boyz

He just smirked at me—
After all I was really
The dirty white boy.

I was desperate—
For Tyrone’s nice you-know-what.
I be a dinge queen.

He just said “Shut up”—
“Don’t gimme that white trash shit,
Get down faggot lips.”

And they all knew it—
Tyrone had dropped outta school
They guyz stared at it.

The white girlz stared too—
The phone would ring at midnight
I got so jealous.

Bulldog Boy

Every time I lied—
Or tried to run away from
Myself in highschool.

I found myself like—
Always brought up short by the
Young bulldog in bed.

Not in the backyard—
Tyrone didn’t bark that much
All he did was snarl.

What do you expect—
From a younger kid brother
Other than just that?

Sibling rivalry—
He was just sixteen-years-old
And I was eighteen…

Tyrone

Tyrone wasn’t nice—
A moody adolescent
He was dark & quick.

But he could be slow—
When he wanted to slow-fuck
Or when I rimmed him.

My gay friends thought that—
It was a horrifying
Thing I was doing.

Taking advantage—
Of his virgin innocence
And big black penis.

I was tainting him—
Forbidden incestuous
Wads of babypaste.

Gay Genealogist

I couldn’t help it—
My gynecological lips,
Our family tree.

I got to know it—
The Root of Good & Evil
Each vein, artery.

Got my lips on it—
Somebody had to do it
Sucking Tyrone off.

Tyrone limped a lot—
His penis got even more
Black & blue & sprained.

I held it for him—
Standing behind him as he
Peed in the commode.

Anatomy of Love

Tyrone’s black penis—
Wasn’t like mine, more like a
Young thoroughbred horse.

He had this dick-slit—
It was at least an inch long
He’d pee in two streams.

One in the toilet—
The other down on the floor
So animal like…

I could feel his hips—
Quiver like a Kentucky
Racehorse in the gate.

I knew how to make—
A guy cum real nice & hard
With my jockey lips.

Tyrone in Love

Tyrone be in love—
With himself, of course, not me
He was proud of it.

“What’s the matter, kid?”—
“I think I gotta get off…
C’mon, do me quick…

That’s how it happened—
In the middle of the night
We slept together.

Sometimes he’d get these—
Wetdreams all of a sudden
Outta the dinge blue…

I had to be quick—
I didn’t want Tyrone to waste
One single male squirt!!!

Nocturnal Emissions

After I got them—
His helpless dream-like
Ejaculations.

He’d just shake his head—
“It must’ve been those fuckin’
bed-bugs that bit me?”

“I don’t bite,” I said—
I like to gum you to death.
Gotta be quick tho…

His teenage hormones—
Were coursing thru his bloodstream
He couldn’t help it.

And his damp armpits—
Stinky with male pheromones
Quivering nostrils.

Self-Fellatio

Tyrone looked at me—
His mouth hanging half-open
I was the expert.

Gawd knows he wasted—
So much doing sixty-nine
Self-fellatio.

He abused himself—
Walnut Elementary
Up to the tenth grade.

Cumly sophomore—
Before I caught him after
School beating off fast.

I barely had time—
To get my queer lips on him
Such exquisite slime!!!

Addicted to It

What can I say?—
That I haven’t said before
I discovered God!!!

Gawd knows how many—
Times I got young Tyrone off
It was just sinful…

He grabbed my head tight—
His dark eyes getting bigger
No laughing matter.

Deadly serious—
We weren’t playin’ any games
I felt him up lots.

Like when he lost it—
Nothing like a cute spastic
Turning inside-out.

Doomed Dinge

So vulnerable—
Like a trembling little bird
With a broken wing.

A basket of eggs—
Squeezed too hard between us both
Oozing down his leg.

Sticky yellow yolk—
Runny clear young male mucous
In the thirsty heat…

A dreadful stirring—
Some Mandingo Hoodoo cum
I tasted manhood.

I felt it stretching—
Down my throat into my
Own cumming cock.

Hesitation

When the morning came—
It was a lifetime later
I could still taste him.

I wanted to touch—
Him just like last night
But something stopped me.

Mother was standing—
There in the bedroom doorway
On her way to work.

Tyrone had been her—
From a previous marriage
Her second lover.

My no-good father—
Had divorced her way back then:
She’d been adopted.

Her dinge Ledger there—
On the kitchen table with
Her black heritage.

Mommy Dearest

Later she told me—
Smoking a cigarette and
Sipping a cocktail.

Her mother was black—
Her real father a lawyer
She’d been his young maid.

He was wealthy so—
He had the kid adopted
A high-yellow girl.

Mother a red-head—
She could easily pass as
Cute Rita Hayworth.

So when her husband—
Ditched her, she went back
To Chicago her home.

The Sax Player

She accepted it—
Her Afro-American
Proud black heritage.

She wanted some guy—
A young Mandingo to fuck
Her silly & forget…

Windy City had—
Plenty of black swanky nightclubs
Waiting to get her.

She fell for a guy—
Tyrone’s future father who
Played the saxophone.

She got into jazz—
He got inside her panties
She needed it bad.

Tyrone the Love Child

Mother came back home—
She inherited money
Her rich step-parents.

A small college town—
She bought an apartment house
Called The Dinge Towers.

It was Art Deco—
After the Streamline Modern
Architecture style.

That’s where we grew up—
Mother dearest, handsome Tyrone
And yours truly, my dears.

Mother was quite gay—
She & her lesbian lover
The talk of the town.

Dinge Ennui

Gay bildungsroman—
Simply wearied me silly
Who cared who I was?

Being unconscious—
Retreating from the brutal
Bourgeois white trash crowd.

Oh & by the way—
My mother’s lezbo lover
Was a black woman.

She was such great fun—
She be Butterfly McQueen
“Atlanta’s burning!!!”

Didn’t know nothin’—
About birthing young babies
Or two boyz like us…

Dinge Confessions

I never felt it—
Feeling betrayed or left out
No angst bothered me.

I couldn’t help it—
Tyrone was all I wanted
Mother be happy.

Tyrone wanted to—
Find himself but then of course
That’s natural, right?

He be Native Son—
While I be Giovanni
I be a Killer.

All I wanted was—
To strangle his dick to death
Becoming Tyrone…

Addicted to Dinge

I was one of those—
Fags who lived his own Novel
Without writing it.

Each day a chapter—
Each night another dinge-love
Juicy denouement.

Like Mapplethorpe said—
Once you’ve gone dinge all the way
There’s no turning back.

I wasn’t strong-willed—
Ambiguity was my
Password thru zeitgeist.

One day at a time—
It was just self-deception
To expect much more.

Kitschy Bijou

Hardly a master—
Other than monstrous drag
And kitschy Bijou…

I believed rather in—
Getting stoned, masturbating
Tasting Tyrone’s cum.

Even that Eden—
Wouldn’t last forever, dears
Always the Serpent.

Drunken & sordid—
I thought of different ways
To keep Tyrone mine.

One fairy tale was—
To have him undergo a
Nice Lobotomy.

The Writer

I suppose it was—
Then I realized Tyrone
Be getting real bored.

A true dilemma—
But after all brotherly
Incestuous love…

Surely it was doomed—
Buck & Billy McCaslin
In “Go Down, Moses.”

Miss Faulkner knew it—
One didn’t have to be a
Lit Crit genius…

To know when boredom—
Hit the proverbial fan
The Seven Year Itch…

The Seven Year Itch

That was about right—
Those seven years had gone by
So very quickly.

Sooner or later—
Tyrone would get married ‘cause
He was a straight kid.

Tyrone simply be—
So hopelessly hetero
That it made me ache.

He started dating—
He got some cute chick pregnant
She hated my guts.

Rather than having—
Her moving in, I asked him
To go live with her.

Withdrawal Symptoms

I couldn’t help it—
I had the heebie-jeebies
Semen addiction…

I pushed the Panic—
Button and stayed drunk all week
Mother got worried.

Got me on a plane—
Flew me down to Aruba
To soak up some sun.

The Latino boyz—
Were so accommodating
Used to bored tourists.

And so I switched—
From Johnny Walker over
To Tequila dayz.

Tropical Paradise

But then I wearied—
Joyless seas of alcohol
Nights of Iguana…

It was like hitting—
An air pocket on a flight
The jolt woke me up.

I’d been in a state—
Of constant motion sickness
Falling down somewhere?

It made me panic—
I can’t describe the feeling
An elevator shaft?

And so bleary-eyed—
I flew back to Dingeville
Older but wiser.

The Dinge Towers

After Mother died—
Butterfly McQueen retired
And faded away.

I spent long weekends—
Walking the Pascagoula beaches
Pondering my fate.

The fading sunsets—
That’s when the lonely summers
Brought me to this place…

Down in the basement—
The dimming art deco glass
Block windows glowing.

I realized that—
A lifetime was very short
Bounded by darkness…

The Delta Night

It ended where it—
Began in the morning light
Now night was coming.

It scared me at first—
It made me afraid being
Smaller than I was.

Crushed by gay desire—
Squeezed and distilled by passion
Like a dinge memoir…

The sweat on my neck—
Grew cold & I got the chills
Tyrone had queered me.

His blood & manhood—
Was running thru my bloodstream
I’d become Tyrone…

The Dinge Writer

I realized then—
Even tho I didn’t quite
Understand it all…

What happened to me—
Was only a pulp fiction
Version of Boyhood.

I had never planned—
To write about my dinge love
With young dark Tyrone.

I had always been—
The Invisible Man who
Was a writer now…

That’s when the doorbell—
Rang & there was Tyrone’s son:
My “Sweet-16” Nephew!!!