Privacy

I.

Run my thumb from my hip

down my thigh

to pinch the stringy

 

wriggling tail and take

some named muscle

but I don’t call it

 

I clench it to

push this little rat

out my cunt.

 

It comes with a pop; it’s

brown ruddy blood-soaked

body dangles under

 

my hand then lays in

some toilet paper:

my left hand.

 

I feel its warmth

and laugh because

it’s gross & beating

 

but inanimate

& always dead.

 

II.

All the little maggot  boys

imbedded in his skin

worm their way out the dead rat.

He dreams them holding

a trial in which

his family testifies

against him– so

helpless & abandoned

when his long lost dream aunt

grabs his hand to comfort him

then runs her hand down

from his hip to his thigh.

 

III.

Inside this moment

the living & dead converge

in the minds of the schizophrenics

meeting down at the docks

telling,

“Don’t let your left hand know

who your right hand is in.”

 

I feel ashamed becuase I am

the full body without organs:

unproductive, sterile,

unengendered, unconsumable,

and just incredibly

bored. I want to see

everything connected,

one full body machine, want to

see it like these

institutionalized

father figures.