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…

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Duncan Grant – Bloomsbury Set

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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
twilight.
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?

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

Relentless

Relentless

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
regret…
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.

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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.

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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,

christopher

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Christopher Michael, drawings

My Drawings for Sale

alexandria dorian drag queen IMG_1271IMG_1326 IMG_1328IMG_1331 IMG_1343 IMG_1364 IMG_1378 paulDrawings are 9″x11″. Some on watercolor paper, some on light weight canvas board. Acrylic mediums. All signed with my monogram CM.

The works on watercolor paper are not flat, the mediums cause some bumping and curling at the edges, they can be in float frames or matted. I am asking only $25 each, includes shipping. There are close to 80 of these drawings. Contact me through my WP site for more information

christopher

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

Poetry Challenge

Looking for gay poets who publish on WordPress and are also on Facebook. I want to do a 5 day poetry challenge that crosses both social media outlets. That means “friending” on Facebook, then start the challenge. It isn’t difficult to share work from WP onto FB.

If you think that’s a cool idea, get back at me and lets make this thing happen,

xx

christopher

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

This Is Where I Go

This Is Where I Go

Angry, mad as screaming banshees in the
D-rated scare flicks, yelling with dull tribal brutality,
pissed, rankled, shouting unspoken love sonnets
on the boulevard, 10 cents a dance, honey,
all night for a $20.
I can make you happy in boxcars speeding across
America looking for Whitman’s manly love;
Can make you happy as Harriet when Ozzie’s
brings home the bacon;
Can make you thrill or dance to any tune you got
in your head;
Can rev you up or bring you down way low,
way too low next door to death’s last breath;
Can get you high, higher than birdsongs,
higher than planes can fly;
Can get you up, off or down, whichever way
you want to go;
Can get you off, can get you on, on to Needle
Park, rats in alleys behind the bar closing at
4am, where dancing males sluggishly drone
to keep methed out dreams alive;
Can get you to places where nice boys don’t
know, don’t go;
Can get you down dark alleys where streetlights
cast no glare, sex behind dumpsters, a fix
for tricks and party boys, thugs selling crack
and H and their asses, anything goes if you’ve
got the scratch;
Can get you up to the penthouse heights singing
party boys with champagne fountains, it’s all for hire,
all for show, all yours if you wanna blow,
blow it all away.

This is where I go: booths and stalls where
hard cocks wait for lips to suck them dry,
leave with no names, nothing exchanged but a
mouthful of gizz, asses are bared for anyone to
fill that hole, that hole, that unfillable assful;
This is where I go, no more than anything holy,
no more than sad, no more than high, no more
than down and out;
This is where I go: wandering aimless through
parks, paths leading to secret spots, everyone
knows, lead to moments of glory, hallelujah,
snort and sniff some high, shoot it big wide and go,
leave behind the sad creatures finding love in
the wrong joints;
This where I go: beer halls, cheap bars with
tired-assed dancer boys shaking their nothing for
dollars, sad-eyed bartenders saying what you have,
working for tips, take home booty at last call;
This is where I go: speeded up, cranked too high,
brought down way low, looking for what I can’t
find, don’t want, desperately need, searching
coming home, drying out, begin again in an instant
for that high, so high God gotta reach down to
get me, so low, so very very low, the earth swallowed
me up, spit me out low down, hating me, hating
the way it got to be, hating it all, up again on the
prowl, moving, hunting til game’s end, psychotic circles,
empty brain, sad little boy cries, in the end,
sad little boy cries.

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