Naked and spectacular

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sexual predator

When I was sitting next to a strong young man this afternoon it was not just his thighs expose below his shorts, but the heat and indifference of his presence that made my penis drip, as if it was salivating.

What does a man do with such a passionate experience of life?  Smoke weed and eat until those feelings are veiled in a bloated detachment, a borderline infirmity?

That's what these drugs are for, otherwise us men would be fighting and fucking each other constantly, am I right?

Or am I peculiar?  Merely a horny faggot or perceptive in the depth and intensity of my masculinity?

I saw the best minds of my generation numbed by electronic media, unable to escape their culture or their parents' nagging faces on the other side of the planet; who for one full year experienced life in all its undiluted intensity of confusion and clarity, only to fly thousands of kilometres in mere hours to the same adolescent bedroom where they began.

I want to drag them away one by one, as they fearlessly approach me.  I want to take them, through the natural path of their curiosity and their tendency towards ecstasy, into a world where their beauty is their currency and their strength and love and need for self-expression is their vocation and where I abandon them to fend for themselves in a world they are strong enough to navigate.

I want to selfishly consume their semen and in the process provoke them with the unavoidable intensity of a love that expects nothing.  I want to take their mind on journeys through media fundamentally different in intention, an antidote to alienation and distraction.

I want them to lead me out of intellectual caverns into bright open wilderness where we rediscover the experience of the human body and the terrestrial environment.

I demand communication in full honesty, with its complexity, its rejection and its earned calm peace.

I don't know when it's safe to be brave in rooms shrouded in etiquette, chatter and electricity.

For the last year I have insulated myself in my private paradise, with food, with literature, with philosophy, with denial of life, denial of the intensity of life, denial of the imperative nature of this moment, that this moment demands to be confronted, that we know what to do in this moment.

I do not want to be entertained anymore.  I do not want to be distracted.  I do not want comfort or convenience.  I do not want to have my own space in which I can develop as an individual.

I want to be violated.  I want my body to be violated.  I want my space to be violated.  I want my persona, my ideology, my habits, to be violated.

I want to possess the confidence to violate the beautiful men who beg me silently to violate them, if only so they can push me away, reject me, make me realise I am safe in rejection because rejection is real and when I am rejected I know I must leave and find a place where I am valued.

I am not an individual and I never have been.  It is clear to me now that my life is meaningless except in relation to my tribe.

I feel strong and confident.  There are still barriers to be broken, but I am ready.  I have nothing further to wait for.  We know what to do, because here we are doing it.  We need each other, we cannot do it alone.

I experience this world only through the conduit of my body, because this is the extent to which I am manifest in this world.  My body is like a glove of total immersion in a world of total darkness.  In this darkness, as this form moving through space, I encounter warm bodies and realise that I too am a warm body.  Nothing is more compelling than this moment we discover each other in the darkness.

The moment overwhelms me with intensity and the scope of its possibility and I choose whether to eat myself out of this moment, or breathe into it.

I'm no monk.  I'm not citizen living in a constructed universe.

My universe is chaotic and divine.  The divinity of the universe I inhabit is blurred and messy and beyond my powers of comprehension.

From here I know anything is possible, but right now only the next thing is possible.

Only what is necessary and appropriate.

My undeniable hypocrisy and the closing limits of my ignorance draw me back into the real world from this linguistic world in which I can hope for perfect clarity.

Listen to an audio recording of my performance of this piece at Voices in the Attic, Ferdydurke, Melbourne, 2015-04-28.

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