90% Privacy

testes climb and descend the
cremaster
as the penis waivers
between flaccid and
semi-thick.
the 7 PM summer
is high and white and
hot.
I am sitting on
an indoor
chair
moved outside,
a black singlet
over my face, sponging
heat, browned by all this
summer in the hot light,
I am heat-saturated
into the place of beyond
heavier bones and blood.
so in this Am, so localised
in tight strong animal
sensations
in the 90% privacy
of a male
in his single backyard,
a vaginal smell
from my phallus
when the foreskin
rolls over the gland
and the sunlight
bits gently the nipples.
expanded to full
capacity, outside
actual greatness,
toe to crown, my
muscular, diminishing
hair-suit form
and anchor point in time
charged, with living
sperm, swimmers,
stretching in their goggles.
waiting the starter’s pistol.
the cat has caught
a bird, I do not
think it is personal,
although
there’s been a
dialogue,
and as much as the driver is
not the vehicle, it is
something we use for a while,
through an agreed upon form of mind
control, being thinking of
being ,and the event. I
understand the pause and the
flutter
as he holds it and releases
it and catches
it until the
bird is exhausted and
too terrified to do anything
other than shiver
as if Max the cat is marinating
the Sparrow’s flesh.
this could be something we have
paid for, a material
sensation field for Capacity
to feel other than Itself, a release
from the permanent Calm, or
it is how movies depict the
desperate
requirements of an artificially
intelligent
cognitively willed Consciousness
to experience the chemical, thus
readable,
frequencies—of Physical Harm,
Confusing
Love, and Illogical Worship.
the bird has gone behind the
excess
of indoor furniture moved
outside
as I reorganise my living
space.
vulnerable
completed canvases have been
knocked
over together in the chase
of one being for another. the
bird has taken
refuge in a small gap among the
collapsed pile
of paintings and primed surfaces,
and Max the Tabby, unable to reach
the bird, blocks the exit.
this intense feeling of
entrapment,
made now here available
by the bird, would be listed
on the reincarnating
catalogue of bodily sensations:
Existence—this
knowing of a relentless
hunt and capture, that
at the
beautiful pitiful death
of your small capacitor,
your roving wet-circuit
vehicle
all done in a small forgetting
not that small
in the fill of the feeling… For
the high of the freedom
in release, the tremulous,
giantific remembering!

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2 thoughts on “90% Privacy”

  1. That opening had me reaching for reference materia, Dean! Like the ‘real time’ feeling of the chase, Max and the bird in the actual and on the page, and the bird amongst the furniture with canvases the cat knocked over, the wild, the unpredictable hunt and hide of our art!

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