Thursday, November 19, 2015

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.

No comments: