Men,

almost always,

men.

Myopic, impotent men.


Our manliness oozing.

Our machismo seeping,


dripping,

soaking,

in swathes of red,

scarlet blood on innocent skin,

hardened,

caked,

dried on cold, dead flesh.


Who am I?

A man,


myopic, impotent.


my swagger puffed on conceit:


my country right or wrong,

my god not yours,

my culture your creed,

my tribe, sect, ideology,

my fists your body,

my words your dignity,

my violence your scars.
Who am i?


A man?


knitted into,

shared humanity?


It is time,

to let this rotten, festering,

glossy, tucked, trimmed, diseased skin of manliness, of ugly power, of twisted arrogance,

to moult,

to lay stark this sham,

this theatre,

these lies, these maggots burrowing deep,


into man,


chiselling, smashing,

beheading, hanging,

shooting, bombing, drone-ing, killing, raping, torturing,

killing, killing, killing,


excising man,

ripping man out of humanity.


Oh yes, I am proud.

I am man …


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