Oh, but we can’t be seen in public with David Gottfried, Oh No!

 

 

 

Oh but we can’t be seen in public with David Gottfried, Oh No!

 

He just lacks the faggotty savoir faire

Of a lovely pansy from Sheridan square

Doesn’t have the queenly flair

Of little boys spoiled, suburban and fair

 

Raw Jewish brains and no grace

Such a ghastly, revolting disgrace

He doesn’t understand his place

That Brooklyn brute should leave our space

 

He lacks love for Madonna, our art so fine

Shows called “Cats,” all fem and feline

Cares not for Boutiques and its bounty divine

But in musty old books his booty he’ll pine

 

Reading Nieztsche and Marx and other strange stuff

It all seems so heavy, without any fluff

His ideas are so wanton and wicked and rough

But we’d still like to see him appear in the buff

 

Copyright, David Gottfried, 1995


The Doctor’s Office

 

 

 

 

THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE

 

 

Bette Davis inhabits Jackie Gleason’s body.

I know this for a fact.

The two of them are alive and well

In the form of my Doctor’s Office Manager.

 

The big fat mean queen screams:

“Deductible, not now, the doctor’s busy,

no refills, only generic, does your penis

and your balls itch or only your penis”

 

Drinking coffee in his own special mug

Round brown rings on my medical chart

He is my doctor’s Haldemann and Ehrlichman

A Blond beast to the core.

 

And I am Vietnam

Blitzed with B-52’s

Strafing my genital jungle

Hairy, raw and red.

 

Copyright, David Gottfried, 1995


Inspired by Lord Byron

 

 

 

INSPIRED BY LORD BYRON

 

“She walks in Beauty Like the night”

Lord Byron

 

Bonded beauty in the night

Or bound and bandaged blistered blight

 

Heavenward heads in starry nights

Or smoggy gloom and occluded lights

 

Beach house dreams of brisk salt air

Or urban sewer, the pusher’s lair

 

Champers in the sweet smelling Pines

Or West Fourteenth and clinic lines

 

Copyright, David Gottfried, 1995

 


Smoke My Herb

 

 

 

When I was young all I had to do was smoke a joint and listen to

“I am the Walrus”

And a poem came out the other end

 

Four quatrains of quartz

The rhymes were hard as rock

It was tight and mean and manly

The Word before the Cock

 

And don’t let anyone ever tell you that drugs are bad for you

They’re worth the risk, Man

They’re worth the risk of ten thousand boys and girls jumping off bridges

Because millions of boys and girls find god

 

They find god when

 

A straight guy and a gay guy

Will kiss each other, on the cheek

And know that they’re just great friends

 

They’ll  find god when

 

He says hello

And she says goodbye
And they smoke herb

And now she always says hi

 

This is mundane

This is jibberish

This is pitifully pedestrian

 

But it’s groooooovy man

Yeah it’s got the elan

To make you kill the Klan

And free the guys in the can

 

And I say yeah man

I speed on the autoban

Say Shima in Pakistan

Say Allah where they eat ham

 

And I say do it man

Throw your stuff in a moving van

Have sex while you get a tan

Forced entry is the best plan

 

And I say goo goo ga jube

Goo goo ga jube

Up the Ass without lube

Be sexy sans attitude

 

This is bequeathed by marijuana

For the brain it’s pure manna

For poets a new stanza

For a painter the pieta

 

Copyright, David Gottfried, 2012


Two Poems

 

 

 

What follows are 2 poems pertaining to homosexuality.  The first poem presents a very bleak view of the whole affair.  The second poem, Ode to Brokeback Mountain, is its antithesis as its view of homosexuality is passionately positive.  I already posted Brokeback Mountain on this site, but I am posting it again lest people infer, from the first poem, that I am homophobic.

 

Praying at the Gay Bar

 

Praying at the gay bar

Debasing at the gay bar

Giving unto Apollo life and balls

The drug induced stupor enthralls

 

Waiting at the gay bar

No one comes at the gay bar

The men are groaning in the bathroom stalls

Their pricks are shit-encased, a rat crawls

 

Aging at the gay bar

Learning to die at the gay bar

You have a name no one at all recalls

All alone enthroned in granite walls

 

Ending at the gay bar

Surrendering at the gay bar

The very thought of joy galls

The sun’s light pains and mauls.

 

 

AN ODE TO “BROKEBACKMOUNTAIN”

by

David Gottfried

 

 

Is my mind shuttered

Hopelessly corrupted

Religiously cluttered

 

With lies, alibis

Am I asinine

(Do I dare to eat that peach)

 

But do I derive

Something alive

Manna to thrive

From a beautiful song and the man singing the words

 

Herds of sheep on BrokebackMountain

I hear the lines, “Oh captain, My captain”

I hail, I hallow, that brotherly bastion

That tent in the woods, my Mecca, my mansion

 

I love that man, I love his eyes

No drug will anesthetize

Nor sublimation ever disguise

My stabbing aches and pleading cries

 

Storm the dungeon of my heart

The relentless melody of the tart

The irony, like a rampart

Against what love can impart

 

Put down the quill, enjoy the thrill

Don’t espy it from a windowsill

A warm chest for winter’s chill

And burn taboos on a grill

 

The fire’s down, the embers gleam

Cold air blows in a steady stream

The warmest arms embrace, redeem

The manly force of love supreme

 

Although his steps were soft and slaked

The boots on his feet were muddy and caked

It seemed as though the earth had quaked

Our hard embrace could not be braked

 

Touch those jeans and feel the heat

The weight, the heft, the sinuous fit

Stand erect and beam conceit

Relish strength and true grit

 

Touch striations of muscled love

The rump pale like the white of a dove

Pulsing vibrations of penile shove

The aperture fitting as sweet as a glove

 

The howling night, the dusty shrub

The mean and common monotonous grub

Those grunting gasps you’ll never dub

The seed, the stain, you’ll never scrub

 

Whisker to whisker, hear him whisper

Savor the breath with the force of a twister

To be each other’s sovereign brother

A bulwark, a brace, against disaster

 

The seasons stark, the natural reign

The real intention spoken plain

Shouting at the world’s disdain

Growling softly in my brain

 

His voice so soft to me resounds

The strength, the sweet, so fused, astounds

On all the playing fields and grounds

His memory overtakes, surrounds

 

But coyotes and jackals intervene

Braying, heaving, reeking spleen

Cleaving to their means obscene

Their Jesus real as plasticene

 

The prohibition that always detains

The prosecution that always arraigns

That never, ever, ascertains

The loneliness lodged in our brains

 

Now soil’s moist, the dew like tears

They once rejoiced, so many years

Their flag was hoist, but disappears

Their love was voiced, but doused by fears

 

So do not dare to stifle and bridle

And make me lonely and so suicidal

Bereft of the force virile and vital.

Silence and Bury that bible recital

 

That cowboy, that manboy, that man of no means

Exposes Pharisees as Philistines

His beauty and balls, staunch evergreens

Surpassing the straight, perverted and mean

 

I want to laugh, I want to smash

Barriers and bullshit and doctors’ cant

I must, I will, I shall do it now

Redeeming acts my steely vow.

 

Copyright, David Gottfried, 2005


The Sexuality of Levis 501s

 

 

 

When I wore Levi’s 501’s in 1982,

It was akin to having sex

But first:  Let me set the stage

 

I was 24 going on 25

I worked-out constantly

I glistened like a gay Adonis

 

As I was saying:

It was akin to having sex

The jeans hugged my ass with exuberant promiscuity

The jeans pinched my balls and reminded me that danger was in the offing

The jeans made my cock larger, which made the jeans tighter, which made the cock larger

Which made the jeans tighter

Which made my cock larger

 

Which forced me into the Streets

Strutting like a cross between Marlon Brando and Liberace

So athletic, so pretty, such a paradox

Which Fucked Straight People Up the Ass

 

Copyright, David Gottfried, 2006


On Being a Hurricane

 

 

 

 

ON BEING A HURRICANE

 

When I was young

For a brief period of time

I wanted to be a girl

Because when I was young

I wanted to be a hurricane and only girls got to be hurricanes.

Flailing and wailing and making a big fuss.

 

They were like big black women

Flying over from Africa on maritime broom sticks

Getting revenge on the South for slavery

 

And most of all

I remember

Hurricane Betsy

Which bombed the South in 1965

 

To me she was Hurricane Betty Davis

Screaming and beating the confederacy for opposing the

Voting Rights Act, for voting for Goldwater

 

Hurricanes were nice and round

like a big bad women’s sumptuous behind.

Shaking her stuff in a mini skirt and doing the twist

 

Hurricanes cried the rain of four hundred years

Whipped the wind like a thousand masters’ lashes

Had all the strength of a woman in childbirth and a man on Iwo  Jima

I wanted to be a Hurricane

 

Copyright, David Gottfried, 1996