BALLAD BLUE

I'm in a town I did not build,
my room is rather mean.
The fleas are leaping 'round and 'round -
my body's not that clean.

I stopped at Freddy's for the cure,
the cost was not too high.
I cannot scratch another spot -
I'd rather see them die.

I'm not an outcast in this town:
Typhoid Mary who?
I slipped and fell, but who has not -
that's why this poem's not blue.

I'll spray my room, and scrub my face
until my life is new.
I'll stay away from Smoky Hell -
make all my dreams come true.

I'll stay inside and write a book
about the world I knew:
The streetwise boys and moonlight girls -
their eyes were baby-blue.

My room is small, my pockets bare,
yet I write this poem for you.
The grungy loner took a bath -
I'm fit for Powell's - it's true.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

JANIS JOPLIN SAVED MY WRETCHED LIFE!

It was 1978 (I think)
and my hair was
too long

and my skin a mess:
people called me
pizza face

and thought they
were being clever.
Never mind that

I had (at least I
thought) the worst
case of acne

in Chicago. So I
dropped out of
high school and

meeting up with
my friends. I
only went

out after dark. And
hotfooted it home
to my small room.

And read at least
1001 library books:
Most were penned

by famous poets. But
I also started to
read biographies

about other
misfits and
outsiders.

And Janis Joplin
(in 1978) was
still up for grabs.

Most straight folks
(apart from those that
believed drugs were

the only way to achieve
Nirvana) seemed
to either

love her or hate her. Big
time. The hard core
Christians especially

loved to use her as an
example of what "sin"
will do to a person.

Given that I was already
damned forever (a ghastly
homosexual!)

I felt protective of
Janis. And identified
with her outcast

status. And I must have
listened to her Greatest
Hits on

8 Track (do you remember
those?) at least a 1002
times.

And read every book about
her I could find. And
my small room was

plastered with Janis posters
(some of them I designed
myself).

Until my world became a
shrine to her memory. And
folks shook their heads,

and were in awe of my respect
for her: "She was just a
drug addict - is that

somebody worth so much
time and effort?" Yes,
I'd say.

Because she put all the
small town bigots to
shame:

The ones that told her
she was ugly and
had no talent:

And guess what? People
are singing a
different

tune now. Even the fools
in Port Arthur, Texas.
Sort of reminds me

of what happened to
Frances Farmer in
Seattle. But

we won't go there
tonight. I'll
save

that for another poem.
All I want to say now
is this:

I am alive today
because of Janis.
She made being a

so-called freak
a beautiful thing:
and puts all those

"perfect" ones to
shame. Because of
her immense courage

and talent. Because of her
pitted (and beautiful)
face.

Because she earned the right to sing the blues.

© 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

LIE

I'm still struck by the
irony of it all: How
I'd recently put the
picture of the two
of us in a special
frame I'd found
at Ace. LOVE
IS FOREVER
carved in the
hard wood.

Now
one day later
I am betrayed
forever by a
man who thinks
nothing of being
kind to my
enemies. Welcoming
back the beast into
my parlor. Making
sure I'm an easy
target for the next
brutal attack.

And I sit here and
wonder what
sort of sick
world is this I'm in:
a pair of lovers
housed in a
handsome frame.
Your strong arms
holding me close
for the throwaway
camera. And the
only thing forever
is the terrible lie
carved in the
hard wood.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

VAN GOGH’S CROWS

If I should die
as the sun sets
and the crows fly

will you forget me?
If I should die
as my blood drips

and the saints cry
will you remember me?
After the paint's dry

and the critics lie
and the crows die
will you forget me?

After I die
and a new sunrise
and the crows fly

will you remember me?

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

CAN POETRY CHANGE THE WORLD?

I believe a good poem can change the world — one person at a time. I believe a good poem can give one hope. I believe a good poem can give one strength. I believe a good poem can help somebody feel less alone. I believe a good poem can inspire forgiveness. I believe a good poem can help one cross a difficult bridge. I believe a good poem can open one's ears to music, and make one want to dance.

I believe a good poem is like a prayer — it can help one see the moon and stars — on a very dark night. I believe a good poem can change the world — one person at a time. In fact, this beautiful and simple late poem (by Anne Sexton: 1928—1974), changed my life for the better: It made me focus less on myself, and more on the world. It made me both happy and sad. It made me want to live. It made me want to become a poet. Isn't it ironic?

WELCOME MORNING

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry 'hello there, Anne'
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean, though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
to a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So, while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter in the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The joy that isn't shared, I've heard,
dies young.

—Anne Sexton

Essay © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

ROUGH TRADE

I would be a liar if I pretended I still
don't think they are the hottest
thing ever in bed. Even if most
of my fantasies are based on badly
made porn: drunken sailors and
soldiers, playing with their meat
in front of a gay man's camera.
Just for a few laughs (and a few bucks).
I wonder how many of them regret it in
the morning? Or do they just brag to
their buddies about how they scammed
some stupid faggot out of a thousand
bucks? And all they had to do was
stroke their meat, while the queer took
a few pics. And they got all the beer and
whiskey they wanted, and even a
sandwich or two for good measure?

I once shared a 2 bedroom apartment
with a very hot straight guy. He knew
I was gay. Yet seemed to love to be
around me when he was fresh out of the
shower. Towelling himself off, as I stood
there and watched. He loved to tease
and torture me with all his butch beauty.
Once, he grabbed me by the shoulders,
and pushed my face down to his sweet
smelling crotch. "So what are you waitin'
for dude? Just go for it."

I was about to cup his balls in my
hand, and give him the blow job
of his dreams (and my own), when
he suddenly pushed me back, and
laughed in my face. "Dude, you know
I ain't no queer." I found a studio
apartment a week later, and heard
he had joined the army.

Now whenever they
show those sad photographs on
TV of soldiers that have died in
the war, I pay extra close attention.
And hope I'll never see his cocky
face. Every now and then, I'll take
a long shower, and use Irish Spring
soap. And remember his sexy smell,
as I imagine what it would have been
like, if he'd only kept his big hands on
my trembling shoulders. And let me
do what he secretly wanted me to do.
Instead of treating me like a joke.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

NUMB

Kurt put a shotgun in his
beautiful mouth: A century
before, Van Gogh's crows
scattered south when

they heard the blast from
a gun pointed at his own
unhappy heart. People put
sunflowers on his pauper's

grave. Hemingway and Brautigan
also used a gun. To save
themselves from writer's block—
ending their last sentence with

a bullet: a hole in the page
of life. But Sylvia chose to
kneel before her tiny gas oven:
one last prayer after all the rage

was written out of her. And Ariel
made her name. While Anne chose to
die in her garage. As she sat
in her car, with the engine

running. Wearing her mother's coat:
something to bring her luck, as she
gambled with Mr. Death. Wanting to
die. Hoping he would win.

They did not rage against the dying
of the light. But welcomed darkness
like an old friend. So if Dylan
Thomas was right—does that make them

insane or dumb? Or too weary to fight?
Sick of the world's beautiful lie.
Afraid of dawn with its terrible light:
Too battered and numb. No tears left to cry.

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

FEAR IS JUST A CRUTCH

Free for thirty days
My broken mind is mending
Fear is just a crutch

Haiku © 2010 by Dylan Mitchell

AN ENGLISHMAN IN NEW YORK

DVD Review

An Englishman in New York is only 75 minutes long. But the DVD has some splendid extra features (John Hurt talks about why he decided to star in the film, plus there's a wonderful feature about the many challenges of making New York appear as it did during the years Quentin Crisp lived and performed there).

For example, apart from an extra window or two (plus a private bathroom) - Quentin's room looks exactly as it did in real life: rather cluttered and dusty. In addition, the humiliating scene where Quentin tries to help Patrick Angus find a gallery to show his "nasty" paintings - is very true to life. The gallery owner was not very kind. Yet Quentin persisted, and a suitable gallery was eventually found.

Given that the artist died young (from complications due to AIDS), I was very moved by everything Quentin had done to help his dying friend: Especially given all the harsh criticism he received after he once infamously stated that AIDS is a fad.

But actions speak louder than words: Mr. Crisp quietly donated thousands of dollars to an organization dedicated to AIDS research. I think that was his way of offering a retraction. He remained a true original untl the end.

John Hurt 's performance is remarkable: The voice, timing (and even how Quentin walked) are all spot on. In fact, there are one or two unguarded moments where we get to see an emotionally naked Quentin Crisp. Hurt's acting is heartbreaking. Yet he also manages to capture all the great wit and joy for life that Quentin was famous for.

My only criticism of the film is that I wish it might have been a bit longer. Quentin lived in New York for two decades. Both the city (and the man) went through several changes. At the end of the film, one gets the feeling that Quentin knew he was returning to England to die. Since my last phone chat with him was a mere two weeks before he died - I was baffled and deeply saddened to discover this truth. I knew he was exhausted and experiencing several serious health problems, but he was his usual cheerful self on the phone, and there was no clue he was ready to say goodbye to the world.

An Englishman in New York brings Quentin back to us: Polite, witty, wise, and brave. And true bravery is rarely seen or known.

Viewer Rating: 10/10

Review © 2010 by Dylan Mitchell

*This review first appeared on Nigel Kelly's excellent site... dedicated to the life and times of Quentin Crisp. If you are a fan (or would like to learn more about a truly great spirit), then I encourage you to visit Nigel's site. It really is amazing.http://www.quentincrisp.info/

FOR CRYING OUT LOUD

I was only a boy in 1973. Yet
I still can remember the first
time I saw Lance: I thought
he was witty and honest and
vulnerable. Both my brothers
thought he was a freak. Then
went on to say I acted a lot
like him. And I better learn to
watch my step. Or I'd wind up
in some sideshow.

I couldn't figure out why they
hated him so? He was the
most real person in that very
fake California Dreamin'
household. AN AMERICAN
FAMILY. Praised by the likes
of Margaret Mead. I knew no
families like the one Lance had.
They seemed too pretty and
plastic. Like the flowers that
were so popular at Woolworth's
at the time. At least Lance was
a true pansy. And not some fake
red rose in a Tiffany vase. I could
smell his sadness. Beneath all the
glitter and camp. He was my
first queer hero.

He actually made it to NYC. And
stayed at the crumbling Chelsea
Hotel: That holy place where so
many great artists once stayed.
Even though many were still
unknown while they were there:
Patti Smith once rented a tiny room
with Robert Mapplethorpe. Before all
the fame and fortune and notoriety.

Andy and Edie famously haunted the
dingy halls - while they were still alive.
And Janis always stayed there when
she was in New York: Little Girl Blue -
all decked out in silver bracelets and
soft boa feathers. And Sid and Nancy
played out their Punk Romeo and
Juliet tragedy in one of the small
rooms. And didn't Dylan Thomas
spend a night there in the 1950s?
Before all the booze and envious
poets destroyed him?

It's no wonder Lance felt like he'd
finally found a home. And if these
were the people that most of the
country considered freaks to be
laughed at - then I wanted nothing
to do with THE AMERICAN FAMILY.
And wanted to follow in the
footsteps of Lance. And Janis. And
Patti. And Andy. And Dylan - all my
brave and doomed outsiders. They
were my family. And when Lance
died - it was like losing a brother.
Because he taught me that it's
better to be a glorious pansy. The
real thing. Instead of a fake red
rose. Even if it means leaving the
world much sooner than all those
artificial flowers born in a factory.

*Lance Loud died in 2001. He was 50.

© 2009 by Dylan Mitchell