WHATEVER HAPPENED TO BOY GEORGE?

YOU

     

Photograph by Robert Mapplethorpe

                                  
Why does love
hurt so
much?

Parting, parting
is such sweet
torture.

Tongue-tied and
in sterling
silver

chains
I do a wobbly
waltz

and play with
the best of
Shakespeare

for only you:
my love,
my mirror,

my special
friend
from

Romeo and Juliet's
high balcony as
photographed

by Mapplethorpe in
stark, disturbing
black and white.

Sir, will you come again?

Poem © 2016 by Dylan Mitchell

RICHARD BLANCO'S INAUGURAL POEM: ONE TODAY (2013)

COMING HOME

He stood at the window
most nights. An old
man with soft white
hair, and a smiling
face. His bright blue
eyes shone like rare
lamps on a dark day.

Coming home,
not a star in the
sky, if I felt a little
lost, or battered by
the world: I'd often
lift my eyes up to
the 3rd floor, and
hope to find him
there. That familiar
gay man in the
window: with his
wise white hair,
and Zen-like face.

A bright light in the
pitch black night.
To tell me who
I am. To see me
safely home.

Poem © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell

STANLEY'S CASE

(After Harold Pinter's The Birthday Party)

Boy, why are you so menaced by the world? Is it
God or his death that troubles you so? Making you
quite fey: A little lisping Adam without your prized
testicles. You really are a remarkable case: A
miserable shut-in, you see, you seldom leave your
small room. A lot like Stanley: Open and shut. Quite
curious and classic - that sort of case. But in
America. Only go out when the full moon's watching
you above. The wet streets reflect pale light  and
queer passing shadows, as you make your way to
the neighborhood liquor store: Heineken. 22 OZ. Big
green bottle. I see you, boy. I've watched you
nervously count your last pennies for the
butch and angry cashier. A regular Roman, that one.
And your stringy Jesus hair and pathetic sandals only
make him want to string you up, like a scarecrow or
Christ. He'll make you suffer, boy. He makes you
suffer. All the way out the door.

You seem better during your long walk home. Notice
the many bright lights in the chill December
night. Little Drummer Boys abound. The
Christ's-child's safe in the miniature
barn. If I could, I'd tell you beauty and
truth are just artificial things to help pass
the time: Art. Philosophy. Religion -
all pretty lies, boy. All pretty lies. Give your blood
money  away to the least of your kind instead.
Whisper your false words in a beggar's lonely ear.
Tell him silver is greater than love. Pretend it's a
prayer, a holy promise. Then betray him with a kiss.
It's your ticket to heaven, boy. Much easier than a
noose. The Romans would have loved the shameless
Christ-lights, not because they are such a stunning
spectacle of ceremony, but because they are electric
and would have come in handy for the daily crucifixions.
They'd merely turn the crosses into wooden chairs -
a kinder way to kill. Romans. Real men. Adam
with his silly balls intact, boy.

Poem © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell

THE CABBIE THAT GOT AWAY

He drove an old battered Taxi
and tried to pick me up
every time I walked home

in the midnight rain. I had
very long hair in 1978,
and most people

thought I was a pretty girl.
In truth, I was a scared to
death

gay young man. Worried about
everything, and not sure
about anything.

I loved his blue eyes and
wicked smile, but never
managed to accept his

free ride: I knew the price
would become much too high
once he learned the truth

about me. So I kept on walking
and his sweet whistle was
like the soundtrack to some

favorite black and white movie
I used to love, but no longer
can remember the name of.

Poem © 2014 by Dylan Mitchell

THE ONLY GIRL I EVER LOVED...

Hell yeah. THE BREAKFAST CLUB - Ally Sheedy. Saw the movie 5 times (in a theater). All by my lonesome. And Ally put popular Molly Ringwald to shame. Big time. She was pretty and smart. A deliberate original. Molly was all surface. Not enough to make a gay man's heart skip a beat or two. And what would you talk about?

Jesus, you look so pretty in pink? I can't stand pink. But I do love beauty and brains. Ally effortlessly rocked, while Molly merely posed. Give me an original girl, and I promise to stop being such a naughty queer boy. Seriously. Plus Ally really knew how to dance: Molly looked like Twiggy on acid. Sad, sad, sad.

P.S. Ally, a girl like you should never have to dance alone...

Humor © 2013 by Dylan Mitchell

FOOL'S CHRISTMAS

This kind of Midnight Mass is not what I need:
Two bearded dwarfs in leather tear up the floor.
The sharp tongue of a dark god makes my ear bleed.
All Madonna's virgins are decked out like whores.

How this thick smoke burns my eyes! Whatever
happened to snow? This intense heat is a river
of flames I try to dance on forever:
I stumble and fall down hard. Some unknown lover

hauls me up before I drown in the fire.
The half-remembered poem I recite reminds
me of school: Lear's Fool could not be a liar
and disappears forever, while more unkind

players tell pretty lies and survive the play.
This bar is a stage; this stage isn't holy:
They make me get out. I haven't a cent to pay
for the long ride home, alone in Hell's folly.

Poem © 2012 by Dylan Mitchell

What If Straight People Couldn’t Get Married?

I actually overheard someone asking this question, while I was standing in line at Safeway the other day. There was an "article" in one of the tabloids about how gay marriage would bring America to its knees (bad pun on purpose) if it ever became legal. The man asking the question appeared gay to me, and he was chatting with the cashier - a straight male Christian. I assume this because he was sporting a wedding ring, plus his casual answer was: "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve, so your question is ridiculous."

The gay man's face tensed up, but he didn't say anything more. However, the incident really got me thinking about the gay marriage issue, and how some straight folks seem to be clueless when it comes to understanding why so many gay folks are fighting for the right to legally get married.

Let's imagine (to help me make my point) a world in which straight people can't get married. A world in which gays and lesbians are casually stating, "God made Adam and Steve (or Amanda and Eve), not Adam and Eve." A world in which straight people see gays and lesbians getting married on television, in the movies, newspapers and magazines, but never any straight couples. A world in which gays and lesbians defiantly hold protests every time straight people fight for the right to legally get married. A world in which gays and lesbians openly hold hands and/or kiss each other in public, but straight people risk ridicule or worse - if they try to express their love for each other in the world.

Now let's throw in the Bible for good measure (pretend there are sections which clearly state that heterosexuality is an abomination, and the holy union between man and man, woman and woman - is something which pleases God to no end). If you are a heterosexual, how would all of this make you feel? Would it make you angry, depressed, or apathetic? Especially if the idea of straight marriage was considered a "ridiculous" one by many.

Essay © 2007 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

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/

THE STRAIGHT LIARS' CLUB (FOR MATTHEW SHEPARD)

Matthew Shepard: 1976 - 1998

Have you ever been the victim of a Hate Crime? I don't mean the verbal sort (getting called a faggot). Sadly, this has happened to plenty of gay men. I'm talking about when your life is in danger - because several straight dudes have decided they want to physically bash a queer.
This happened to me when I was 23. I'd just left a gay bar, and all of a sudden I noticed six dudes (they were drinking in a vacant lot across the street) were glaring at me. They started calling me a faggot, as they followed me to a bus stop I was headed towards.

Suddenly a beer bottle was thrown at me, and since there was no bus in sight (it was close to 1 A.M.), I figured I'd better make a run for it.  They continued to throw bottles at me (and call me names), as they chased me for at least four blocks. One of the bottles struck my head, and blood began to drip all over the front of my shirt.

I decided to run down an alley, and noticed an open back gate to somebody's house. I dashed into the yard, and hid under the porch. I could still hear the dudes shouting in the distance, and I was certain I was going to die. I was trembling and dizzy as hell, but managed to hide under the porch until dawn. I figured it was finally safe to come out, so I left the yard, walked to the bus stop I'd originally been headed towards, and sat on a bench. It took the bus ten minutes to arrive, and it seemed like the longest ten minutes of my life. But once I was on the bus, I felt like I just might survive. At least I was no longer alone. I did not report what had happened to me, and I still have a small scar as a reminder. I never went back to that bar again.

I wonder how often this sort of thing happens, and goes unreported? Since I never got a good look at any of the crazy dudes, I felt it would be pointless to go to the police. I was just grateful to have survived. But I suspect this kind of hate crime is more common than is known. I wrote a poem about Matthew Shepard, after I found this haunting photograph of him on the internet. I don't know who the photographer is, but I am forever grateful. Matthew seems at peace with the world. Plus he's still wearing his shoes. This fact becomes heartbreaking, because Matthew would ultimately be robbed of his shoes and his young life.


THE STRAIGHT LIARS' CLUB

Alone, dying, and tied to a fence
Robbed of your money and life
By your new gay friends
Not a husband, but a wife

Is what they dreamed of most
So they tricked you into the truck
Beat you bloody with a gun
Was it just a bit of bad luck

That made you trust a pair of
Straight liars? Or was it
Something more like love
Their deceptive smiles and

Macho ways: just a trap to
Lure you to your death
They hated gays, and liked to
Brag - long after your final breath

They seemed so earnest and friendly
What did you have to lose
Your mother and father and future
Your pair of expensive shoes

Poem © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell

#1 (from 100 Men I Have Slept With)

Chicago. Summer of 1980.
I was just an 18 year old kid
from the poor side of town.
I knew I was different, but
didn't know where to go to
find other people like myself.
The only queers I knew anything
about were the rich and famous
ones on television: Baby-voiced
Truman Capote. And maybe rugged
Rock Hudson (didn't he like to knit?).

So I got sick of being so lonely,
and when I heard about a gay
movie (CRUISING)
being shown at a theatre
downtown, I put on my finest jeans
and button-down shirt, and took
a bus all the way to State St.
I remember I was afraid of so many
queers in one place. It was a bit
overwhelming. And so many were
conspicuous and proud! While I'd
always felt ashamed of what I
was. And tried to hide in some
dark closet.

I don't recall much of the flick. That's
how nervous I was. And when
somebody suddenly put his large hand
on my innocent knee in the dark, I
jumped up to flee to the Men's room,
and was splashing cold water on my
face when Tom suddenly smiled at
me in the bright mirror: Thirty-something.
Long brown hair. Straight white teeth.
Dorky glasses. But with a jock's hard body.
He actually asked me if I needed a hero?

I followed him out of the theatre, and into
his car. He lived alone in an expensive
condo. After three glasses of white wine,
and a rough kiss on his couch, he suggested
I join him upstairs. In his huge bed beneath
a window of stars. I asked him if we
should at least close the curtains?
But why? He said. Then he kissed me
again, in front of the naked window. And
put my hand on his hard cock, as he
started to unbutton my impossible shirt.
And the straight world outside couldn't
stop me anymore.

Copyright © 2009 by Dylan Mitchell