New location for poetic censorship is discovered days after Facebook nudes are similarly desecrated… Artists MUST be mad!
I think of Sour Girl Shawn as I pull on Stone Temple Pilots and walk to the train on my journey to Brooklyn.
I bring tracks from CD #3 and Mood Swings sing me to poetry between 168th & 145th.
I can’t remember attraction to Boy in Orange; attraction died ages ago without my notice… Still nice to see him if I’m ever so lucky.
Scribbler illustrates the back of my mind as I tunnel through Manhattan to deal with angry humiliating disappointment which I refuse to surrender to despite the temptation to ralph on the sidewalks of NYC.
Gay brother is hurried, frenzied and anxious with no hint of sexualized identity beyond godly reunion with labyrinthine daddy issues.
He speaks of personal demon monsters that come for him and I wonder do psychotropic medications rob him of sex like the monsters that snatch him away; like Gobblers forcing spiritual circumcision on unsuspecting Golden children?
He teaches, reaching out to a fragmented world for a mythological unified self that I can’t quite believe in despite of it’s appeal.
In snowcapped Vermont artists interpret MADNESS in nine songs that jangle pleasantly through my short term memory, where they fade away to nothing, save vaguely happy impressions of experiences I wish I could hang on to for longer than Ambien will allow.
Xanax RATTLES in my pocket as seemingly female child rearing occupant makes other passengers noticeably uncomfortable… the smell of talcum powder makes me think of boyhood erections and vaginal cancer.
The sound of “Kryptonite” comes from 3 Doors Down and I’m dragged back to San Francisco drunken backseat passenger ride from one unknown location to another. THE MAN beside me is wearing my black clothing, my leather collar, while I am wearing someone else’s dress…
What ever happened to that Dorothy looking shit?
So intimate to see him wearing my goth rocker drag while I feel the cool autumnal chill on unwieldy knees which have never felt more naked.
…My Head Is Spinning…
Gay gangster rap pours into my brain as latex allergy flashback rips me in half on preacher boy’s beautiful blonde cock…. and that last time was totally worth it.
The Midrin has thankfully done it’s ruby stained work; Thank you Peter Murphy (The Scarlet Thing is actually in me) and I’m dancing at the Kit Kat Klub where all orientations are surprisingly segregated when angry heterosexual cis-woman calls me a faggot before I turn to make out with her stupidly aroused boyfriend just to spite her.
Off the train and I stop at random village pharmacy for cough drops before Jumpin’ Jack Frost tells me we’re done: just 2 more meetings and out… I’m lucky it’s still Tuesday because I’m gonna need a drink.
“Do you want to begin?”
Back in the dress I wore so preacher boy could see me naked, and I have no idea that 18 years later, on the opposite side of the country, I’ll still be scrawling about him singing “Bewitched, Bothered & Bewildered”, “When You Wish Upon a Star” and assorted unspeakable lyrics that he traced across my unguarded vulnerable ambition.
This part sucks but it’s just a draft and doesn’t need to be as perfect as Cocaine Sex in countless naked backroom dance parties… bodies writhing in dark congress, riding waves in darkened corners – pain, disappointment, lust & loneliness expressed in acid light, opium torture and heroin bliss.
Feed me water. Slake my thirst. Let them drink wine!
My faded dream memories are highlighted by sexy black and white music videos
and yet his defenseless freckled skin, his sensitivity to illumination and to touch, to my mistakenly hurtful turn of phrase, not to mention the weak and tremulous light through his lambent luxurious locks…
All of this to illustrate through those color coded passages, confirming what I knew was truly blushing and divine.
The achromatic ginger waited lifetimes to be mine.
They struggle through spin, repeatedly heated, Spritely ghosting across the years to inspire long after intentions are forsaken, forgotten and buried.
The contradictions are too numerous to name as each star burns to nothing plummeting from the inverse sky in a brilliant spark unseen but heard in echoes of erotic aural bliss.
Not all brothers need be the same or enraptured by the mirror ball illumination glittering on the skin of our shared origin story.
The aspects of dissimilar experiences guide us to drastically different outcomes as we are nourished (and sometimes poisoned) by the same rainbow roots.
When you walked in to Starbs with my man on your arm in your charmingly gay jeans, I smiled and I thought that this could be fun.
I ran into an old customer who told me about his son’s tumbling class as I watched you both ordering coffee, with an easy, relaxed manner, that spoke volumes of what was to come.
Your sing song ramblings were the essence of adorable and you seemed younger than your pictures, while also managing to look completely different from whatever angle I spied you from.
We agreed on Buffy’s Gift and disagreed on LGBT actors, though not in the typical, angry, grating way, which Aaron and I had just discussed in relation to a similar friend, who has already secretly been mentioned here.
We had matching board games which we managed to win before I took pain killer when I expected no more games to be played.
This, aside from the tongue fuck of a kiss which was seemingly dared and then shared without mercy.
Later, that other kiss on the kitchen counter, and you were the ghost of Sean Mobley, whispering across my skin before we all retired to the place I expected us not to go… which in all fairness, I had insisted on.
There were obstacles to overcome but in a relaxingly hazy, lustful way, or that’s how I experienced it at the time.
Your sexy ass, which I yearned to devour, was sadly out of service… and my painkiller infused erection was quickly down for the count, yet your beautifully thick dick and mouthwatering sack were open for business.
I did fucking love your sex drenched cock, stretching me open after riding your face like you were some kind of bucking bronco.
You were energetic, switching positions, still looking different from every angle, painfully / pleasurably thrusting deep inside me, filling the rubber with an impressive load of cum.
You left soon after, since you don’t like to cuddle, and the two of you needed to be up early the next morning.
You took Ian McKellen (as James Whale) with you and we traded messages on this or that service but I don’t hear your voice in those words.
In these random exchanges it’s hard to tell what is real; hard to tell if we’re going to see you again.
Perhaps you really were just a shadow of Sean, come to sing me carols and wake me with a kiss.
But I’d like to talk to you again: face to face.
It’s not all about your dick; it’s everything else too; all those angles are views I’d like to explore.
My sentences sent to convey this seem awkward and desperate, but that’s not how they’re meant.
Like I said, it’s hard to tell what is real in the light of day; hard to decipher if what we experienced was the beginning of friendship or merely the end of a short, yet satisfying game.
The monsters which stand between me and true understanding in this world of my own making; unintentional as they may be they must still die to set me free.
My mind and body are split into fragments which collectively form the state of my being.
The Man I am proud I am becoming, (I’ve worked very hard to become that man), is excited and happy that someone he loves will have this opportunity to explore and experience that divine feeling of mutual lust and reciprocal desire, because I know that he’s beautiful beyond reason, beyond any other lover that I have ever known.
I want him to know this. I want him to embrace this and to accept who he truly is. I want him to know and feel joy and accomplishment. I want him to achieve self-actualization.
A less developed part of me worries that if he knows how much he is wanted he may choose to leave me for multiple partners.
But then again, why would he do such a thing when he already has someone that allows him the embraces of others?
And if he can so easily be seduced from my side is it worth denying him such knowledge?
I love him and could never hurt him in this way.
My inner child is small and hard and terrified of what’s to come; so excited that he may shit his pants, wet himself, embarrass Daddy with his hungry child erection, which comes and goes repeatedly based on levels of excitement and fear.
These images are too base and too powerful to be ignored.
The man that I was before, only years ago now, is fearful of mistakes repeating themselves; liars and cheaters and assholes who could not give me the attention that I needed as they abandoned me to explore all that I secretly desired.
But this time it’s not a secret.
My Daddy knows my shame and my lust.
Daddy knows what hungers make me hard; what makes my legs wobble and my knees shake.
Daddy knows that I call out for him when I’m alone and stroking on the edge of understanding, on the brink of destruction and the verge of orgasm.
Daddy knows how small I am, how much Daddy’s cock overshadows my tiny boyhood penis.
Daddy punishes me; his words whispered lustfully into my hungry bottom’s ears; spanking me with diapers, fucking my mind and my asshole; bringing all that I am to the light that I might solidify and individuate from all that has come before now.
Daddy knows that I crave his calculatedly insincere cruelty to make me cum; to take me deeply into lustful spaces beyond which I’ve yet dared to explore… Impossible places that I cannot reach without his loving embrace of seemingly vicious incantations which (spoken lovingly) brutally summon the fragments within me; bringing me to coalescence in this savage intensity, this immensity of emotion and sensation which I want / need to explore in the paradoxically identical agency from which his own exploritive needs are encountered; that wellspring beneath his sense of sensual worth and attraction which unites us in mutual self sexual exploration.
We’re two sides it would seem of the same themed wet dream that has haunted forever and needs to be conquered.
Two shades of wanting of the same kind of haunting that has taunted forever: we must slay our monsters.
And in the aftermath of our battles be they excessive or successful failures I know that I can hold him and tell him he is loved; the way Daddy has told me that I am loved after he punishes me with unrestricted access to his most insightful lessons.
There are other, lesser fears of disease (given our precautions) but they cannot prevent me from finding my truth in the search for his own.
I love you. I love this. I love that we can hold one another as we walk through the terrifying war zones of our youth.
