Naked and spectacular
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Thank you,
Quinoa Blessed
2017

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2015-05-28

Hot breath and the dangerous ocean

Your body draws me towards you, especially your eyes, emanating depth and mystery.  I am standing upon the beach looking out at the dark and dangerous ocean, taunting me and compelling me to strip off and dive in.  I move towards you simply to hear your voice clearly amidst all this ambient noise, and I can smell your breath, warm and familiar.  I can taste it in my mouth like we're already kissing, but I don't want to impose my hasty intensity on you just yet.  I lean closer because the noise is surrounding us like waves crashing upon our rocks, but somehow this proximity and focus keeps us both dry and it's like I don't even hear that noise.

Nothing has more clarity to me right now than your beauty calling to me softly.  Is that the heat emanating from your body that fills me with warmth right now?  Or is it all that extra blood my heart is pumping to my extremities?  Every waft of rich breath I taste from your speech makes my cock swell just a little.  There is a voice in my head compelling me to kiss you right now in front of all these people, but no, now's the time to listen and see you and discover what common ground we have to stand on.

When we experience what proximity provokes, what is mutually possible in this moment, maybe we can experience each other directly.  But first we have to look each other in the eyes, we have to feel intensely into the reality of the moment, we have to try to speak without hiding behind chatter and culture.  We have to engage with how safe we feel to reveal ourselves, to be vulnerable and pathetic and beautiful and unique.  I want to get naked with you in a profound sense that is not visible to anyone else in the room, but I can't be sure that's what we both want.

Maybe first we have to find ourselves a little island we can share and feel safe, if only for one momentary delightful conversation.  Or maybe in this shared moment we can get naked together in the most basic sense and so start from there, start from the simple tangible undeniably present flesh of our mortal forms, where we can wordlessly touch each other in the terrestrial sensory ocean of incarnation.

In the danger of this swelling, sucking and crushing beach we must navigate between the earth and the divine, stability and chaos, between heaven and hell, the sacred and the profane, flesh and inevitable death.  We can grasp at each other's overwhelming but tenuous bodies before we're inevitably torn apart again in the rip, before we're washed up on the shore or dragged out into the depths.


2015-05-26

I am real

There's beauty fucking everywhere, am I not supposed to desire it?  The beauty tears my heart out and drags me towards it.  This beauty is people.  I want these people.  You.  These people are you.  I want to touch and smell you.

What?  Are you going to call me a fucking rapist?  A pervert?  No.  I'm a fucking faggot.  That's who I am.  And I want to get naked with you.

Forget the pornographic images in your damaged brain.  Forget it.  Here I am.  I'm real.  I have desire.  I am a man.  I have testicles and testosterone.  I have a fucking cock and so does every man. 

Every man has a cock, like me.  But not like mine, your cock is different.  I want to see your cock and meet your cock and taste your cock.

But that's okay if you're not ready.  Let's start with the eyes.  I know I'm full of pain and desire and ecstasy.  I feel my animal body every second of the waking day.  But I think too.  My brain's no fucking animal.  My brain is civilised.  Educated.  I was lucky enough to grow up with the most wishy-washy inoffensive Christianity ever devised, but I got my religion. 

I got my disgusting body and gays like to each other's penises in each other's bums and watch out for the paedophiles.  I got don't get into cars with strangers who pretend to be your parents friend.  I got sometimes you go through a phase.  I hid the shameful secret that I was a sexual being for a full decade 'til I was 18 and it was too intense to contain.

I was told it's not safe here.  Put up your fucking barrier.  Hide behind your fucking cell phone.  Desire from afar like you're in a glass fucking box and go home where you're safe and look at photos on Facebook of real people and project them onto pornographic images of real people and dream of real people while there are real people right through the wall of your bedroom and that person sitting next to you, he's real too. 

And I am real.  I might be intelligent and painfully self-aware and self-obsessed but I'm pathetic and irrational too.  I am emotional and needy and sexy and fucking magnificent. 

I have read poetry to a straight man in the rainforest in the clouds and then sucked his cock 'til he ejaculated in my mouth while it rained on my manuscript. 

I am alive.  I am real.  This hair on my chest is real.  I've earned it.  I have greys in my beard since my six-week emotional breakdown in Golden Gate Park, sleeping amongst the eucalypts, eating shoplifted superfoods on picnic tables by the fake waterfall that needs a pump.

I am real and my fucking horniness is just love made filthy by my filthy fucking culture.  Our culture.  Claim it.  It fucking stinks like shit but here we are, pretending to be above it all. 
Pretending to not be human, not be animals, not be mammalian monsters with cocks and cunts and none of this is crude it's just our language, it's the Anglo roots of our language.  It's not vagina, Latin, it's cunt, Anglo.  This is who we are. 

How fucking weird that I can do this, I can say this, but then here I still am, there you still are, we're both still wearing clothes, neither of us are crying, neither of us are comforting the other, neither of us are recovering from the perversity of the world we've created.

Here we are.  White Australia.  We did it.  Colonisation complete.  A fucking total success, like it never happened.  Like it's always been this way. 

What else did we colonise?  Our children?  Are they civilised?  Are they white?  Will we let the black ones through if they wear clothes?  If they wear clothes.  Will you let me say anything I want, if I wear clothes?  Will you let me get drunk and vomit in the toilet, if I control myself?  Will you let me love you, if I don't touch you, talk to you or look at you? 

I'm not in love with one person.  I walk down the street and there are people everywhere.  They scream, "Come.  I'm beautiful.  Touch me.  Love me.  Talk to me.  Respect me.  I'm here.  I'm real.  I will not reject you."  And what do I do?  I keep walking.  I'm terrified.  I don't know what's going to happen.  I'm not safe here to feel things.  I'm only safe to buy things, to do things, achieve things, get places. 

Connecting with random people on the street, just cos they're beautiful?  No.  That's not how it works.  You know that's not how it works, that's why you keep walking.  It has to be accidental.  You have to be introduced.  You have to have mutual friends.  You have to find yourselves suddenly and spontaneously alone.  You have to act like you don't care and you can't fake it.  It has to be real. 

My entire body is on fire all the time.  I'm sorry for my crude language, my love is anything but crude.  I say I want to violate you and it's true, but I respect you and I'm not doing anything without consent; without joyous consent. 

I'm not doing anything unless I know for sure it's going to positively transform your life.  Cos my love and my passion are the same thing.  My desire to respect you and to smell your dripping cock are mutual companions. 

I'm not crude, I'm not a pervert.  I'm not a sexual fucking predator.  I am me.  I am here.  I am real.  I'm a fucking faggot and I intend to manifest that as fully into my life as possible and into this pathetic religion we call culture. 

I don't know what it's going to look like.  I'm studying the shamans, the pagans, the heretics, the ecstatics, the mystics, the lunatics, the poets and the fucking borderline autistic schizophrenics.

But I'm a faggot.  I have a body, a heart and a life.  I am here.  I am real.

  !

2015-05-12

bursting intensity


There is a bursting intensity emanating from my soul.
What is my soul?  That which knows all.
What is my body?  That which is desirous of all.
My body lurches and throbs and pulsates.
It exalts in misery and joy.
And my mind?  It is anxiety; doubt.

In a room full of strangers,
in which we have shared proudly with honesty and openness,
I want to engage
but I am ignorant of how to chatter
and forget which face I'm supposed to be wearing.

I want to grasp you in my hands,
forcefully, gently, tenderly.
I want to look you in the eye.
Our arms wrap around, our chests move together, our eyes close
and the room does not exist.
Together we leave space-time and enter instead the aura of each other's bodies.
For an eternal moment we rest in the peace of togetherness.

This familiar feeling.
I know this smell.
Perhaps this is how it felt before we were incarcerated in our individual bodies.
Perhaps this remembrance of peace can only be fully experienced together.
Even two so-called strangers in a room full of people
can transcend time and space, anxiety and alienation,
for one imperfect moment that we can't entirely commit to,
but that we defiantly attempt and share.

Like every morning, we wake up in our own body
with the infinite potential of what to do,
who to be, how to move through space and time.
Alone in my body all day
I try to find ways to communicate,
to reach across the veil of my tortured intellect,
to reach humbly across my throbbing passion,
to step out of the divine moment, to look at it,
to calmly observe with my damaged, lonely and fierce mind,
to laboriously translate the keenest subtleties of my observations into something I can share,
to step into a pre-planned space, an organised moment,
overwhelmingly populated by stunning, terrifying, delicious, intoxicatingly intense, brittle, gentle and pretentious fellow humans,
and to re-enter that long-ago moment,
that I was too self-conscious and civilised to experience
but which I now recreate, as best I can,
inside out,
in which, this time, I am not alone, I am not isolated,
because every thought, every emotion, every vibration
is a word coming from my mouth
and these beautiful humans who I am too scared to talk to and touch
are listening to me, are hearing and understanding and appreciating.

Regardless of their clicks or lack-of-clicks I can feel them hearing me and knowing me and loving me
and I can beg them,
with all the desperation and desire that I'm too scared to express,
to violate me, to consume me, to desire me, to grasp for me.

I'm full of love and I know my stupid useless boundaries.  
I respect your boundaries all too well,
but I want to violate them.
I demand you confront me with your desperate intensity.

Maybe right outside the door there is concrete and carbon monoxide and paranoia and uniformed minions of institutionalised violence.
But we have found something,
flimsy and linguistic though it is,
and here we are,
another night,
having manifest another moment,
having emanated an atmosphere of safety and inclusion
amidst the unbearable pulverising insanity.
And here we are.
My god,
here we are
together.

We make sounds with our mouths and this somehow means something.
It’s not just cultural cues,
it is something else.

The world out there is made up of something,
something creating little prisons of meaning.
"You are under arrest," they tell us, and we are hypnotised.
We are hypnotised by the slogans of soft drinks, life insurance, socialists and multinational charity organisations.
We call it advertising and shrug it away.
In the past they called it black magic, the curses of petty tyrants, jealous witches and greedy merchants;
spells of weaving, spells of binding, spells of concealment and diversion.

So what the hell are we doing, gathering in rooms,
carefully composing and projecting delicate combinations of words?
Casting new and better spells to embed ourselves deeper into the illusion?
Surrounding ourselves in an unlikely new cushioned dogma to protect us from the world we refuse to understand?
Or are we spell-breakers?
Are we perhaps not creating a secular new age religion of inclusion and globalisation?
Are we instead destroying illusion,
undermining the pious and politically correct,
ridiculing each other's petty projections and then hugging each other's warm healthy bodies?
Are we destroying the linguistic and ideological infrastructure that caused our parents and our grandparents to give up in despair?
Is this real?
Am we really destroying the barriers that have divided us for centuries, since our villages were invaded and colonised?
Can I stand up here and speak to you and destroy the generations of violence that allowed us to invade and colonise this land?
Have we always been this powerful?

So we refuse the hypnotism, and then what?
We're still in this room, the weeds are only just pushing up through the concrete, only a few national economies have collapsed.

I found my rural paradise and I lived there in peace for years.
I understood; and I spat in the face of patriarchy.  I healed myself of paranoia and got bored of anger.
I stopped reading the news though I still cared deeply about the fate of our silly little species.
I lost faith not just in domesticity, authority and entertainment,
I lost faith in hope, I lost faith in startling global upheaval, I lost faith in the all levels of human organisation.

My mother died and of course I grieved the life of the human whose frail body formed the foundation of love my entire terrestrial existence is based on,
but then I found myself
fully present in my body.
I felt into my body and found it to be strong and beautiful.
I felt into this warm self-regulating masterpiece of sensitivity and strength.
I turned 30 and I found greys in my beard and I discovered I was hornier and more confident than ever.

I go to the best possible places, where the humans are loving and free, and I look around for one whose eyes engage my own, whose beauty calls out to me across the room, I approach him, I wrap my arms around him and together we transcend time and space for a wonderful imperfect moment.

Listen to audio recording of my performance of this poem at Voices in the Attic, Ferdyduke, Melbourne, 2015-05-12.