I am Man

Us men,

almost always,

men,

myopic, impotent men,

our manliness oozing, seeping,

dripping,

soaking,

in swathes of red,

scarlet blood on infant 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 caste,

tribe, sect, ideology … … …

Who am i ?

a man ?

knitted into,

shared humanity ?

Perhaps ’tis time,

to let this rotten, festering,

glossy, botoxed, tucked, trimmed, diseased skin,

moult,

laying stark this sham,

this theatre,

these lies, the 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.

Yes,

i am man.

on nationalism

When it all comes to pass,

enmeshed,
hewn into the detritus of splintered glass,

sharpened shards cutting deep,
pilfering dreams from wakeful sleep,

looking around,

treading on hopes,
yanked to the barren ground,

smiles and laughter,
famished and broken,

suffocated by slithering words,

scampering away,

leaving limp tongues,
fluttering flags,
jingoistic pride,

ever on,

fostering noxious words,

hurled,
flung,

nonchalantly,
well-meaning,

pompously spoken.