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

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.