When Michael Jackson rescued Bubbles, Was it the start of Jackson’s troubles? The Wacko Jacko moniker stuck, But Michael didn’t give a good fuck. He had love. Unconditional love. Primordial primate love. Bubbles knew what was goin’ on. Bubbles had had a rotten childhood, too, Raised in a cancer clinic worse than a zoo. He feared for his life, his death almost certain. Lymphoma, carcinoma would bring down his curtain. Then this man-boy walked into his room. He had a fake nose; he saved Bubbles from doom. He gave him bananas, he gave him love, He let him try on his Thriller glove. “My chimp Bubbles is a constant delight” Bubbles slept in a crib next to Michael at night. He used Michael’s toilet, ate Michael’s food, Lived Michael’s life, shared Michael’s mood. He knew how to moonwalk and met Liz Taylor. He watched as the gloved one wrestled with failure. Bubbles knew what was goin’ on. He really knew what was goin’ on. He looked around. He figured it out. He loved Michael. Bubbles knew what was goin’ on. Michael started to hang out with boys And Bubbles became just one more toy. He watched as the boys now shared Michael’s bed, He cried as he lost his Neverland cred. Just one more monkey in the zoo. On Michael’s payroll with nothing to do. In the entourage with the crazy emu. Bubbles knew what was goin’ on. He had good instincts. He knew that Michael was going down. He was the only being Michael could trust. But Michael didn’t know it. Then one day Jackson heard that Prince Was using Bubbles for an ESP fix, Channeling bad stuff To hex Michael’s career, Destroy his music; make him fear Bubbles and mankind and all but the boys In the Neverland bedroom; his only joys. Bubbles was through. Bubbles knew what was goin’ on. Bubbles saw he was going to lose it all. Bubbles was going to lose Michael. Michael planned a party for Bubbles With Benji and Lassie and Cheeta as guests. But madness stalked Bubbles; he needed a rest. He spit and he growled and he stomped and he screamed. Michael was faithless in Bubbles’ dream. He didn’t want Cheeta or Liz or Benji, He wanted Michael; he wanted Daddy. Bubbles knew what was goin’ on. He was powerless. Big and muscular and powerful. An animal. But powerless. Bubbles moved out and into the wild To a ranch far away from his Neverland child. He thought about Michael every day. The bananas, the bed, the child-like play. One afternoon his keeper said: Bubbles, your man-boy celebrity’s dead. The Demerol got him, Bubbles thought. I feared it would; the pain was fraught With terror...shot up in error...look in the mirror. Bubbles knew what was goin’ on. Bubbles knew what was goin’ on. Bubbles knew what was goin’ on.

What good is Cristal After you're dead? The booze'll Pour out of the holes in your head. And then when you're gone, Your wife can be proud. She'll have Louis Vuitton Make you a shroud. A Hummer Hearse. A Burberry Coffin. The Mercedes line up. "You come here often?" Your mistress says To a guy with grillz Who looks like he could Pay her bills. An Hermes wallet. A Brioni suit. Bro, you got Some classy loot. But when it's over, You're not gonna party. You're six feet under. Worms eat Armani. They take off the Jacob, The rings and gold chains. They empty your pockets, You're done with the dames. An argument for responsible living. An argument for charitable giving. Your public service lived and died With bottle service in chic club dives. You lived, you died, You left a few rhymes and Some guys who remember Some coked-up times. Some women who hate you, Some kids who don't, Cause they only saw you When you were broke. Your Hampton haven Went to the gavel, The thread in your threads Starts to unravel. No conflict diamonds From Sierra Leone, Just guns in the car. Shots shatter the bone. Wear Ferragamo Like there's no tomorrow. Hugo Boss Like there's no loss. Gucci, Fendi And Missoni. An illusion. Life was phony. What good is Cristal After your dead? The booze'll Pour out of the holes in your head. St. Laurent. Body bent. With Dior. Shut the door. Gucci, Fendi And Missoni. An illusion. Life was phony. St. Laurent. Body bent. With Dior. Shut the door. Shut the door. Shut the door. Shots shatter the bone. Shots shatter the bone. Shots shatter the bone. Shots shatter the bone.

Edward Mendelson, you sealed your doom When you put Auden's essays all over your room. Everyone at Yale was gettin' pretty worried Until W.H. Auden needed essays in a hurry. You had so many essays that he had forgotten, And you told him which of his works were rotten. Pretty soon he was deferring to you. You had the power -- your authority grew. "Hey, be my Executor," he said, "Of all my works after I'm dead". Edward Mendelson, you sealed your doom When you put Auden's essays all over your room. You had so many essays that he had forgotten, And you told him which of his works were rotten. How could you do that, Edward? He's W.H. Auden! In the matrix, but once removed. Another man's poems are yours to choose. Edward Mendelson, what does it feel like? To be so far into an English guy's psych... You're so far in there, Edward! You're in W.H. Auden's mind! Do you ever get lost in Auden's work? Do you ever feel like a drygood's clerk? Just another day, Edward! In the matrix, but once removed. Another man's poems are yours to choose. Edward Mendelson, what does it feel like? To be so far into an English guy's psych... You can lose your mind, Edward! Shufflin' a poem from one stack to another Definitive editions pile up, brother. It never ends, Edward. The work never ends. Do you ever get lost in Auden's work? Do you ever feel like a drygood's clerk? Edward Mendelson, don't despair People are jealous, you shouldn't care. You're Auden's guy with complete control. But sometimes, you must want out on parole. Let me out! Let me out of Auden's brain! In the matrix, but once removed. Another man's poems are yours to choose. Edward Mendelson, what does it feel like? To be so far into an English guy's psych... I can't take it! "Time that tires of everyone Has corroded all the locks Thrown away the key for fun." Get me out of here! "Time that tires of everyone Has corroded all the locks Thrown away the key for fun."

Tangier Is Very Queer: Cut your throat Right off the boat, Oh Baby! Jean Genet, He had Marseilles. Now Tangier Will have its day, Oh Baby! Tangier is full of queers, Moussay Il Idray, How did it happen? Our boys are strong, Their daggers drawn. Yet Burroughs comes to live. How did it happen? Tangier Is Very Queer: Cut your throat Right off the boat, Oh Baby! Capote stays, And brays and brays, But never prays On holy days, Oh Baby! Tangier is a place of sin. You cannot be too fat or thin, Too rich, too poor, too oversexed. To stay, your life will be a wreck, Oh Baby! Euro, US, Arab, son, You’ll raise a glass by Ramadan. The boys will get you Like Paul Bowles. You’ll live in holes. Oh baby! You’ll die here, Languishing on kif. You’ll smoke Until your body’s stiff. How did this happen? Moussay Il Idray, How did this happen? Tangier. Malcolm Forbes, He came to play With his toy soldiers, Then he stayed. He was the toy By end of day. How did it happen? And Barbara Hutton, Woolworth Queen, Her villa here Had made the scene. But Tangier drugs Made her a fiend. How did it happen? Tangier Is very gay. Naked Lunch On holiday. Oh baby! You catch the sun, The Kasbah fun. You can’t get out, You shout and shout. Moussay il Idray, How did it happen? You catch the sun, The Kasbah fun. You can’t get out, You shout and shout. Tangier Is very gay. Naked Lunch On holiday. Oh baby! Moussay il Idray, How did it happen? Moussay il Idray. Moussay il Idray. Moussay il Idray. How did it happen? Tangier Is very gay. Naked Lunch On holiday. How did it happen?

Andy Warhol, are you the devil? Drop the "d," are you evil? Andy Warhol, are you the devil? In death, Andy, do you revel? Poor Freddy Herko Jumped from a window Five stories down on Cornelia Street. He was a dancer; Andy his cancer. A necromancer, Morals asleep. One of the thirteen Beautiful boys: The Superstars knew What Freddy would do. Amphetamines spoke, And nothing broke The plunge But the pavement below. Andy Warhol, are you the devil? Drop the "d," are you evil? Andy Warhol, are you the devil? In death, Andy, do you revel? Poor Edie Sedgwick OD'ed by her husband After Andy forgot who she was. A porcelain look; a barbiturate hook. All Factory made: A byproduct of love. She dyed her hair silver, Silver like Andy's. She was the mercury To his mirror. Spending her money, Smoking a ciggie, Talking on phones In perpetual fear. Andy Warhol, are you the devil? Drop the "d," are you evil? Andy Warhol, are you the devil? In death, Andy, do you revel? What's gonna happen Once Andy leaves me? I am old And can't fit in my tights. I am only twenty. By thirty I'll be on Some talk show, A talentless has-been Tonight. I know I’ll stop eating and Just keep on talking. Keep doing drugs? That goes without say. Great Auntie Edith Sat for John Singer Sargent. Mustn't forget, Artists love Sedgwick's gay Austereness. Out of the shadows. Black and white, Whether film or paint. Andy Warhol, are you the devil? Drop the "d," are you evil? Andy Warhol, are you the devil? In death, Andy, do you revel? Models are useful When young and pretty. Artists don't care when they die And decay. Eros is shattered, Venus falls broken, Beauty corrodes by the end of the day. Andy Warhol, what did you do To all the young people entrusted to you? They danced off of buildings And OD'ed on junk So you could do silkscreens And prefigure punk. Andy Warhol, are you the devil? Drop the "d," are you evil? Andy Warhol, are you the devil? In death, Andy, do you revel? Andy Warhol, what did you do To all the young people entrusted to you? They danced off of buildings And OD'ed on junk So you could do silkscreens And prefigure punk. Beauty corrodes by the end of the day. Venus falls broken. Venus falls broken. Broken. (Background) Ecstasy PCPs Shrooms Cocaine Angel Dust Opium Acid Special K Poppers Speed 'Luudes Peyote Glue Sunshine Candy Dolls Meth Chill pills Heroin Cocaine Opium Speed

I'm the apparitionist, Your body's getting cold. I'm the apparitionist, I'll get into your soul And up your skirt and down your pants. I'll bring a semblance of romance, And I'll teach you how to stay Well beyond your earthly days. I'm the apparitionist, Your body's getting cold. I'm the apparitionist, I'll get into your soul. Ectoplasm everywhere, I'll run a shade right through your hair. I'll haunt if you haunt me. A ghostly union, can't you see? I'm the apparitionist, Your body's getting cold. I'm the apparitionist, I'll get into your soul. Sheets and chains are not my game, I'll come in through the windowpane. Lose yourself in my decay, I'll show you a more mortal way. I'm the apparitionist, Your body's getting cold. I'm the apparitionist, I'll get into your soul. I foresee the end of time, And oh, my love, it's so sublime. Let me wrap my arms around you And take you underground. I'm the apparitionist, Your body's getting cold. I'm the apparitionist, I'll get into your soul. You are looking right through me, My sins and crimes are all you see. I am losing you, my dear, Your breath's no longer on my mirror.

"Aujourd'hui, maman est morte." Yesterday, my mom was dead. "Ou peut-être hier," he said. Today or yesterday, who knows? "Je ne sais pas." The Stranger chose To chant Albert Camus' first lines, Declaring existential binds Where life is lived in blown despair. Shall I eat a peach or pear? And which day did my mother die? Or perhaps, she's still alive. Ennui, boredom, anomie, Cast the young upon the sea Of indifference and neglect. Let's kill ourselves. Hey, what the heck, Let's kill another, Unlike us, In cars, in streets, behind the bus. Let's deal drugs, let's rape someone, Let's run illegal immigrants for fun. It's existential, anyway. And we are just a day away From the bomb and global melt, When nothing will be deeply felt Except the end of every day That did not end in quite the way We thought it would, Or thought it should. It did not end at all. And now we're stuck with all our crimes, A dead maman, and desperate lines Of people 'til the end of time. The end of existentialism Frees you from a private prison. Get out there and work the fields, Grow the flowers, make the meals. Feed the children, nurture love, Brush the cat, release the dove. In fact, maman is still alive. Camus is dead. But you, you thrive.

"I have handled color as men should behave." Hey, Josef Albers, that's a quote to save. You taught at Bauhaus 'til thirty-three, Fled to Black Mountain College in the state of N.C. That was the place for painters to be. Got Bob Rauschenberg and Cy Twombly. That was the place for painters to be. Then on to Yale, You taught Eva Hesse. And you also taught Richard Anuskewicz. Your painting of squares, their brushwork so light, Create an illusion of boxes in flight. Homage to squares, 'cause square you can't be When you go out and mess with Color Theory. Color Theory. Color Theory. You do done the math and designed album covers, And with your wife Anni, you were textile lovers. She wove when you traveled from the North to the South. Intense fabric use and great word of mouth Soon made Anni the U.S. number one weaver. She wove a big web so Joe couldn't leave her. What drove these geniuses to such extremes? They loved pigment and texture And fulfilled all their dreams Of a perfect world with austere design. Perfect for Bauhaus, And for our age, sublime. For our age, sublime. For our age, sublime.

I had a friend whose name was David. He died of AIDS in a railroad flat In New York City in Nineteen Ninety. I'd never seen a death like that. We don't remember What the plague looked like, Watching our lovers Perish in bed, Before there were cocktails, Ryan White and Compassion. Before we knew We weren't going to be dead. Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. The land of three H's, Or so we were told. Haitians, Homosexuals And Heroin Users: If you were one, Then you were stone cold. Or maybe you ate off the wrong plate. Stood next to a Homo on the Metro. Or maybe you shook hands the wrong way. Then, buddy, you'd be the next to go! Buddy, buddy, the next to go. Buddy, you'd be the next to go. Buddy, buddy, the next to go. Buddy, you'd be the next to go. Picked off precisely By fungus infections, Karposi's sarcoma, And lethal erections. End of show. End of show. End of show. How will we live with this sadness, we wondered, Two hundred funerals we went to last year. How will we heal, recover, forget? How will we ever live without fear? How will we love without condoms or kisses? We're prophylactic with every breath. Wrapped in a rubber, a lambskin, French letter, A johnny, a raincoat, a sheath. Give me death. Death. Now AIDS is mostly a faraway country, Breaking the broken and eating the poor. Their last possession is their last breath. I've never seen a death like that. I've never seen a death like that. I've never seen a death like that. Rock Hudson, actor, died in 1985. Perry Ellis, 1986, fashion designer. Liberace, 1987, entertainer. Max Robinson, 1988, anchorman. Tim Richmond, 1989, race car driver. Steve Rubell, 1989, nightclub owner. Ryan White, 1990, teenager. Freddie Mercury, 1991, rock star. Isaac Asimov, 1992, writer. Tina Chow, 1992, model and fashion icon. Nestor Almendros, 1992, cinematographer. Rudolf Nureyev, 1993, ballet dancer Arthur Ashe, 1993, tennis champion. "You can't get AIDS by hugging, kissing, holding hands. We are normal. We are human beings. We can walk, we can talk ... We have needs just like everyone else. We are all the same." — Nkosi Johnson, in a speech at the 13th International AIDS Conference, July 9, 2000.

Alfred Hitchcock had just one thought: That women kill when men are caught. Love and fear are all the same To Hitchcock in his lover's game. Would Cary Grant kill Joan Fontaine? Would Kim drive Jimmy Stewart mad? Would Eva Marie be a femme fatale? Should Janet Leigh go through torture porn hell? Novak's killed twice, Vera Miles goes insane, And Theresa Wright's Almost tossed off a train. The most special effects of The Master of Suspense Are reserved for Tippi Hedren, With a love so tense, So polluted, so knotted, So shameful, that Hitch Tried to disfigure His love object / His bitch. "Women are bad, very bad," thought Hitch, "They deserve what they get," "Ya gotta kill that itch." "Women are bad, very bad," thought Hitch, "They deserve what they get," "Ya gotta kill that itch." Hitch was watching The Today Show When he saw Tippi, His next ho. He put her under contract For seven years Of pain and hell and rage and fear. He chose her clothes; he changed her name. Then "The Birds" changed the game. "The Birds" changed the game. Remember that scene when she goes To the attic? That scene that creates An audience panic? Hitch told her he’d only have mechanical birds, But he threw real ones right straight at her. The exhaustion and the terror. The exhaustion and the terror. The exhaustion and the terror you see were real, And so were the facial scars time had to heal. He had his Kim Novak, his Janet Leigh. Hitch created and destroyed Hedren every day. Small comfort that for almost a week Ravens and crows had rubber-banded beaks. Small comfort that for almost a week Ravens and crows had rubber-banded beaks That pecked at her eyes so that we could say “She’s an icy actress. Looks like a cold Leigh." She had enough. She wanted out. "I'll ruin your career," Hitch started to shout. He did. He did. He ruined her career. A single mother with rent to pay. She had nothing to say. He ruined her career. He did. He did. Can I... Can I bring in the lovebirds, Mitch? They haven't harmed anyone.

So you've tried to reach me, And you say I'm never home? So you've tried to call me, And you think I'm still alone? From now on, if you want me, You can watch me on TV. Or go to iTunes, kid, And download my mp3. I'll see you from the screen With my five picture deal. I'm a UN envoy now With a presidential seal. My agent takes my calls. My chauffeur finds my girls. My cook cooks all my meals. My accountant pays my bills. My dealer gets me high. My shopper buys me clothes. My maid cleans up the mess When all the guests go home. My trainer muscles me. My barber cuts my hair. My guard makes me secure, And that's why I don't care. I'm tan and fit and thin, I'm not the guy you knew. You threw that chance away, And now I don't want you. You can come enjoy my club On South Beach any night, And wait in line for hours Just to get a sight Of my large entourage. I'll come by a little later. I'll be out with some hot girl, And you can date the waiter. So call me on the phone, It's busy, never free, Cause the entire world Now wants a piece of me. That's how to reach me. That's how to reach me. That's how to reach me. That's how to reach me.

At eight, I had an angel’s face, Meek and mild and full of grace. I felt that God had let me in, And I could not conceive of sin. The priest told me to sip the wine And kneel for him, just this one time. He touched my head, he messed my hair, And then the man began to stare. His eyes grew bright. His hands moved down. And from his robe Emerged a crown Of flesh. I drowned. Pope Benedict, I am forty-two, And every night I think of you And the two hundred boys Like me Who cannot sleep at night, You see. Whose faith was shattered By that flesh, Whose minds reset Like games of chess That we have lost, and play again To find an endgame we can win. Can I avoid a mortal sin? You think of doctrines, Not of boys. Of predators, instead The joys of disciplining Those whose ideas you Suppose seditious Takes your time. And I am raped While you parse The Church’s word. My muffled screams Are never heard. May you choke on the parochial. I was a boy. And then I wasn’t. As a man, I stand, Not kneel, And fight the demons You conceal. I genuflect and wonder why The Church can still obscure the sky. Cannot God destroy the church’s spire? And mercifully, in the gyre of Twisted earth and falling stone Reach down and save me From having blown a priest at eight? Pope Benedict, you sealed my fate.