Thursday, November 19, 2015
At a Loft Party in Soho, I stare at a David Hockney Painting
Russian bath house, sophisticated women bathe men, egg yolk and water
Black Elvis holds court at a country club playing guitar, country blues
Where would he call home, Washington Square or streets of Nashville
At night he dreams of Las Vegas, classical Mona Lisa and her muse Matteo
Dance to Joy Division. Sweat seeps into her skin as she forms a pirouette
Wonder why there’s no money in art, would he be curator at a gallery
Round up no name graffiti artists put them up in Chelsea’s Marlborough
Blood he had shed, was it for fame, uploading street fights on social media
As if he were soldier who went to war, spraying machine guns, tagging names
Brooklyn born black painters who vacation Germany, paint still-life in the Bronx
Open a bottle of champagne; celebrate celebrity skin, all who call yourself art stars
Began with palette knife, now in the afterlife, where do you find your significant other
Do you match at Match.com, what would be your opening line, Shakespeare sonnet
Or let the words flow like an MC Snoop Dog, imitating style and vice of Viggo Schnabel
Cougars waltz in like German Kokoshckas dressed in bathing suits sipping Manhattans
A black Jew in a Wes Anderson film, if not African American punk in a Jim Jarmusch
Speak a mother tongue, Mandarin, read David Foster Wallace in a Hong Kong hotel
Gather thoughts as Buddhist, at night crown yourself Catholic, leave behind a cross
What crimes have you committed, do you project as a Hollywood leading man
Or inject cum into condoms? Making love in the ghetto would leave a man breathless
She stops to post status on Facebook. What would she say, was it good for her
As it was for you, maybe whisper philosophy in her ear, turn her into sex muse
Inflatable Doll, Sex Scenes and Negritude Novels
Sensation and sensational are two powerful "S" words, derivative of that other "S" word. Satchmo uprising, skies buttered with blue butter. Gothic blues, British blues, blue guitars, Johnny Marr with The Smiths.
I was a sensation, my life was sensational. Like electric wire chords running through my body I was lit up. Pleasure came in a novel called Rat. White upper class entitlement. Intellectual wars among drugged men from transitional housing and Mondo New Yorkers clashing over banging of doors, child abuse, drunken soliloquys after midnight.
Cocktails and conversations. Canadian art kingpin conference for a Modern Art Museum executive, video aficionado climbs black men in her Brooklyn boudoir. Selfie nation, photographic portraits on a bed. Word pimp mounted virtual ghost while bi-sexual art fiend breathed him from sexual vibes penetrating cracks in the walls.
Hyper to hypo. My brain was chat room. Girls were go-go. Facebook. It started with a poke. Demure, she sat by window on a snowy day listening to Miles Davis’ Bitches Brew, visiting Vanessa Beecroft show rooms, smoking Marlborough Lights wearing Victoria Secret.
Virtual to vulva. Sensual, no knife for bone. Blood within the veins. From the Galleria, sexual philosophy over vodka and gin while mixed races clash regurgitating art romp discussions about gender and identity. Paintings exhibited were Middle America social critiques.
Disintegration. Barflies drenched in thought, liquor smells, spills, broken shot glasses, I seduced her into coming home. Seven year celibacy. Oral lessons she learned modeling for a gay sculptor. If pleasure were sensations from pins and needles her teeth were made of tiny nails.
Morning after, bathing in a cupboard size bath tub, our bodies collide. Monsters from David Cronenberg. Naked lunch. Alien sex, two Japanese cars humping. Interracial seduction, white flesh, black skin choreography by Betsy Johnson, dizzy ditz doing cartwheels postmodernist sex positions. Long Dong Silver, prosthetic for prick Africa Baam Baataa bumrushing a shiest.
Words of an urban cultural scientist, black bodies hung after dusk. Wives, daughters, lovers watched, wondered with sad eyes. Roped up onto a tree, bodies hanging left to die. Indeed they asked why. Husbands, sons out in the fields. White madams on beds dreamt of black men, flexing muscles, standing legs apart, gritting white teeth.
She came from ancestors of white blues mamas, talked scum into men who failed at love. Pointed rifles in the faces of those who dare come home after dark. A mother took on corporations, company of men, head chief, conducted conferences, ordered them to drive bleeding bodies in ambulances to hospitals. Sometimes she took the wheels and drove. One woman show, mother Nightingale.
She had become that, tough-talking, hip shaking, white ass, mama looker, running the department of one of the most important art houses. She loved her men, black men, told stories about the size of them. An inspiration for art. So they stood, huge imaginations of cocks sculpted standing, decorating her apartment.
What god was I to come along change her mind on what she thought was love. Black Jesus, love messiah, poet threat, a man understood minds of Caucasian girls, sat with them in the light. White light poured over naked bodies. That love had died made him vulnerable. Black girls he knew had been left behind to braid hair of other black girls.
She made him King, watched him lose his crown. An undertaking. Black royal robed in gold waltzing through the streets of Greenpoint. Coffee fiends in coffee houses stressed at his sight. Could he be Kafka. Was she Dora Maar. Or was she Dorothy in this Land of Oz.
She took him to New Hampshire to see mountain men, long-haired bearded men. Over the highways onto beaches, intervention on what was a city boy roped in by yellow tape, prison gates, government lines. He tasted salt water, walked her through neighborhoods where white folk stood and stared.
In her mother’s guest room they made love. Overlooking darkness, bears, no barbed wire, she coiled and cooed. She knew it was the last love she would give. Like an axe to the head. Bludgeoned and buried. A mask on the wall. Black male blow up dolls standing tall.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Mistook you for a fig. Fug. Was it me that bronze statue?
Painterly walls house works from an Iowa Walt Whitman.
Gasoline theft. He sucked my breath from Rolly cigarette.
Boys rougher than rats.Blonde slither, smooth chick, butter skin.
Loose cuffs on your wrists.Slip me a number. I run from gallery
Mucks making art out of cop kills. Legs stalk the Eastern grid
To empty pockets, pristine NYU girls lined up between 1st and A
Night wounds, rope scar around neck, he pulls at gold chains
Martinis with former Rauschenberg acquaintance, Dominican threat
Braids his hair, accompanies middle aged Park Avenue widows
Whitney before meat packing district when B was for Biennial
Butcher Finnegan’s Wake, spread her legs, recall Vivian Darkbloom
Oh Vivian in a Testament tee-shirt first row Vulgar Display of Power
Killing Brooklyn Sharky, took on three Saint Nicholas hoods no knife
Power outage, Soho went dark; I talked two interns into giving blow
China Town alley way where Somalis get high near Taco Bell joint
Locksmith surreptitiously unlocks door while we chain smoke Camels
Mitsubishi Outlander backseat doors open bipolar narco catcalls
He snickers gives the middle finger to Betty wanting her, grabs crotch
She spits, I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last dick on earth
Upstairs Ricardo challenged me into fighting for a dollar, mouth off
He dated Shalom he says, I read a Canadian chick Margaret Atwood
Tying up Narcissister look-alike I would wear a mask gloves handy
Prettiest thing a man could ever do is wax poetic French kissing
Wordsworth, explaining Brit poetry she has a go at Alexander Pope
Sometimes I speak with an accent makes for particularly freaky time
Fake blues, would you cry if you heard Howling Wolf’s doppelganger?
Laughing Hyena plays harmonica prevents himself from stammering
Discourse after main course, soft shell crab with Village Voice writer
New York politics, gonzo journalism, mad men cut diamonds here
Jewish women play down a trick, businessmen suited for cunnilingus
Cold December apartments, missionary positions on unmade beds
There was a time when the air was vodka heavy tonic water wet
Rain poured over streets, living dangerously mob man’s dictatorship
Listening to jazz, Smalls, brunette aphrodisiac, famous blue raincoat
Let cocaine fiends laugh, our evening resembles an Eastwood flick
American cinema holds weight especially Altmans and Cassavetes
Night a Kenyan Canadian Dorothy Dandridge type accompanied me
Sidney Poitier in the veins, Shadows, Gena Rowlands, NYC angel
East Asian restaurant’s newness under blue light lamenting love
Afro political romance, black conscience tormented by white thought
These hipster rebels exchange philosophical verses semiotic bullets
This age queer culture, I carried her over to bed imperialistic violence
Dropped her forcefully taking of isolated land. Loins becoming Haiti
Tormented, sorority abuse, boys counted cancerous tumors on skin
Banged on call buttocks to bruise, lost innocence, who’s your daddy?
Love convicts crash cars picking up strangers, blameless femmes
World made apocalyptic, art sensations carried out as murder wish
Lebanese art whores give head, American curators play Coltrane
When Yizthak Rabin died Israeli artists painted canvases with blood
Where are the Mark Kostabis, probably getting Banksy autographs
Inside a hideous hotel I graffiti the walls, shoot myself, wait for fame
Saturday, November 07, 2015
Ass Love, Sacrificing of Brooklyn Video Artist
Art anxiety - Black Marquis de Sade painting muses
He undresses actresses in Episcopalian under rooms
Sexual hysteria - voyeuristic Italian homo meditating
Virtual copulation, African philosopher, Polish model
Subliminal paranoia, fainting, sight of a fetish goddess
She mirrors him, his head explodes from Kierkegaard
At her Williamsburg address sculpted six feet dildos
Mexican neighbor, romantic parasitic lover screaming
Francis Bacon pose,camera elevated over Moroccan bed
Nights when their caravan wandered Ashanti forests
Machete between teeth, painted skin, blood shot eyes
Back woods held captive, chained to mango trees
New Hampshire woman, mother Guggenheim weeping
Talking drums, trumpets bleat, baritone saxophones moan
Smoke builds towards malicious sky, Adowa dancers emerge
Standing Kumasi chief, cult member, surveys the underworld
Thieves wearing masks spears in hand present goat’s head
Bonfire burning at midnight, lions roam, cheetahs, hyenas
Young girls blinded with white cloth, boys dragged by feet
Sacrifice to Gods, mountainous men rage, Cocteau’s wrath
Brooklyn agoraphobia, Abolitas masquerade as dope dealers
Barbarians at whiskey bar beating dead horse drink bourbon
Resembling Bette Midler, ass love, ship captain christening
Bang champagne bottle against derriere, bubbles bursting
Tormented titillation, grips the mattress, head against pillow
Cringes, hot breath emanate tight lungs, clenched fists shake
Boat ride through the Caspian Sea, background urban music
Vultures wait ashore, prepare for massacre, vicious claws
Sink into perspiring flesh, psychotic screech, blood red water
Bodies torn apart float, slashed breasts, scarred male torso
Morning sunshine welcomes them rotting over river beds