In the company of his own fellowship
A coldness impales the male persona
As he stands in a barren winter field
Where the rapidly shifting wind throws his
Chilled stiff body into nothingness.
He stands trying to conceal his shiver.
Above the infinite eye of the night
Glares down upon the stupid smallness
Of his existence, reminding him
That millions have died in war, all of whom
Have been embedded into the cold ice
Of this winter night. Masculinity
Searches through the shards of life left living
Harnessing the urges of the carnivore
That kill kill kill with the same raw hands
That make firm handshake contact wi zeal
And that tenderly touch the ladies.
From this austere and enraged body
A serene exterior world is created
That is worn hard with wounds, and that laughs off
The pathetic sentimentality
Of the human tear—never to be known
The inner yearning of the hopeful boy
Who, unlike the girl, is likely to be
Showered with the lush gush of mother’s love.
It is with the eagerness of this child,
That the man runs for shelter from himself
In the shapely form of the loved one’s sex
Its warm womb waits for a procreation
Beckoning for the inner vacancy.
The creases in his face tense with pursuit
As each encounter is entered upon
With the dream of a warmer existence.
And from his isolation he looks down
Into the wonderland of bliss and happiness
Where the beckoning of loud trumpeters
Brings him to a picaresque village
Where children parade the streets with batons
Emitting colors that enhance dimension
Joined by music that captures the air.
The energy of youth is amassed into
Vibrant expressions that spreads love
As if love alone envelops existence.
And so the man attempts to realize his dream
Pushing his lips into some unknown world,
Overpowering resistance that is faced,
And sucking the marrow into possession
As he prays his work is competent.
This tastelessness emerges from male needs
That form the foundation of any
Declaration of unpredictable love.
Which upon being uttered, bitterly wounds
The omnipotence of his apathy
That has weathered the female’s rejection.
Burning red is this bitter rejection
Which throbs with the capillaries
Containing the scarred qualities of a burn
And the whistling fervor of a kettle,
Creating rash and crazy disorder
Like the urgent removal of a sweater.
The heat of male rage flows like static
Through society’s institutions
Bearing aggression that hurts others
But purifies power, enabling
Him to exhibit the mental cleanliness
That maintains his inner captivity.
Undetectable spirits randomly
Scatter and convene like a pack of flies
Within his rotting soul, swindling him
Out of his holism, haunting him
As if they were the damn economy
Haphazardly groping in the dark night.
What would it do to the hurting male heart
To brave new worlds of vulnerability?
The male could dismiss his violent past
And improve his intimate adeptness
Involving himself in child rearing
And nurturing the household with concern,
What would it be like to embrace a love
Beyond the selfish need of sexual urge,
To feel its presence out in the night air
As an anonymous voice possessing
The intimate concern that makes it so
Beautiful, desirable, and loving?
Let the male heart absorb the full spectrum
Of the human experience! Make him
Capable of actualizing his
Internal independent uniqueness.
Let us all enter the night with love’s grace
An yearn for nothing but what lies within
