I’ve never seen this art, and its stunning. Quiet and so erotic with a strange sense of purity. Thanks for sharig.

The Year Zero

I’ve been enjoying the three-part documentary How To Be Bohemian currently airing on the BBC. Episode two focused on the sexual pioneering of the Bloomsbury set in which homosexuality and bisexuality were, as we know, de rigeur.

Loving the artwork of Duncan Grant and fascinated by his personal life:

Duncan’s early affairs were exclusively homosexual. These included his cousin, the writer Lytton Strachey, the future politician Arthur Hobhouse and the economist John Maynard Keynes, who at one time considered Grant the love of his life. Through Strachey, Grant became involved in the Bloomsbury Group, where he made many such great friends including Vanessa Bell. He would eventually live with Vanessa Bell, who though she was a married woman fell deeply in love with him, and one night succeeded in seducing him; Vanessa very much wanted a child by Duncan, and became pregnant in the spring of 1918. Although it is…

View original post 146 more words


Duncan Grant – Bloomsbury Set

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

In Memorium

In Memorium

He died young, an adolescent, never knowing
intimacy, joyous rapture entwined in another man’s
arms, pounding, thrusting hardness, bodies to
ecstatic climax, for kisses on waking, caress
for sleep, I love you at dawn, I love you at
He never knew that love, nor any other, he died
young, died without intimacy, love shared by
two young men, though they mourned him
made memory over him, in time, memory faded.

The old man lives through the smiles of younger
men, watches as they dance and glide across
the rugged terrain of intimate love, sexual prowess,
he silently weeps, le lacrime degli angeli,
his longiing past tense, his time spent, asking
was that intimacy those thounsand gruntin acts,
clining kisses, arms and thighs banging together
without an i love you, parting, was that intimacy
or a hope still renewed daily that though gone,
love will find him, lost in deep reverie, love
will find him?

The boy died young, the old man weeps for a joy
that boy will have never know, with teary eyes
misting in the fading night, wonders did he either?

Christopher Michael, drawings, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer



Hands veined and wrinkled, fingers stiff at the
joints, burst blood vessels, wounds on the arms,
all else hidden from sight, in mind’s eye young,
supple and pliant as youth’s desires, free wild child,
70s hippies, drugs, dancing in the streets, LSD
turn on, tune in, drop out 1966, pimpled
adolescents in full youth’s bloom, sent to war,
returned in wood boxes: dear family, we
Too young to die, cut short by war’s unnecessary
bitter stroke, sit-ins and protests, drugged out youth
rebellion, flocking to San Francisco, free love
Woodstock, a new generation protests more
loudly than sound has heard before, a new
culture wobbling along for a decade til it crashed,
haircuts and suits, jobs and reality, bankers and stock
brokers, homes and kids, rampant sex and wild
times hidden behind respectability.

Time on parade, class of ’62, old is a state of mind,
a lie mirrors peeping back at the carnal wreckage,
gone the youth culture, the protests, the drugs,
the freedom to break out til conformity chained us,
dragged us back, as only conformity must.
We’re old, we sigh, chaffing on ‘60s memories,
class reunions, body old, and wrinkled, the
spirit of youth still burns in those eyes, teary eyes,
tears of sadness, paradise lost, youth spent,
wasted unlived.

Queens of our culture, not as mainstream brothers,
lived as the path directed to here, though the time
may not be distant when reconciliation makes whole
the parts of youth lost and lived, age and reality sets
upon this journey moving forward, upward, when wisdom
was cherished, not wisdom a vapid waste, children seek
their own measure, as age moves to its own rhythm,
we are alive as long as hands grasp hands,
lips kiss lips, light does not fade into eternal darkness,
pain is but a touchstone, bearable as life’s reminder.

Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry, homosexual, lgbt, queer

I Make Sad BEautiful

I Make Sad Beautiful

I make sad beautiful, old lace, delicate as child’s
breath, in cedar chests tucked fondly away, old lace
and withered roses, deep blood rust fragile as
newborn day, powdered sachet in hope chests
old lady souvenirs, dried flowers pressed between
ages of books, poems by Browning, sweet kisses
from grandmothers dry ancient lips.
I make sad beautiful, faded photographs, ancestors
unknown died in sepia-toned memoirs of decades
flown by, strange sad images of bygone mores.
I make sad beautiful, sounds made by kinder words,
lullabies crooned to sweet babies sleeping, words as
gentle as kittens, fleeting as the monarch
butterfly passes, hymns sung by angelic choirs,
grand operatic gestures and sounds lithe as
the beat of bird wings.
I make sad beautiful, Verdi’s operas and Mimi’s
death, tragic, lonely music soaring in night rigs,
beautiful flute notes sailing on a hot summer
breeze, deep lamenting requiems, and far off
fog horn cries.
I make sad beautiful, wondrous arias to end
your days, or being a life.
I make sad beautiful, but if you don’t like my
music, don’t listen; if you don’t like my songs,
don’t sing with me; if you don’t like my poems,
don’t read with me, poems flowing gentle tears,
tears of memory, la mamma morta m’hanno alla porta della stanza mia; moriva e mi salvava! my mother is dying, close to the door to my room
while dying, she saved me!
I make sad beautiful with tears of joy, beautiful
graceful as blown glass animals, delicate dolls
locked in curio cabinets, dark wood frames with
leaded glass panes, sad as glass menageries,
curious refrains from childhood, sad is beautiful when
kept out of the light, sad as dog-eared books,
butterflies pinned to velvet, sad as the hushed voices
of children stilled before their time fulfilled, sad as
the voices of children caught in pain, sad as adults
locked in private hells, sad is beautiful, only if sad is
brought out of darkness, then the eye can see beauty.


Drawings for Sale

1A1A4909_Edit 1A1A4913_Edit - Copy 1A1A4915_Edit - Copy1A1A4919_Edit1A1A4925_Edit1A1A4926_Edit1A1A4927_EditIMG_1043IMG_1242IMG_1253IMG_9230IMG_9233IMG_9234IMG_9235IMG_9236IMG_9245_editedThere are my drawings, originally created to accompany my poems. They are 9″x11″ and some on watercolor paper, the others on light canvas board. Due to the intense acrylic mediums the watercolor paper drawings are wavy, but they can be back mounted or matted. $25, I cover the USPS shipping. If you’re interested, please contact me via WP site,