Supposing there is a tiny kernel of life
lodged somewhere behind the furious wave
of your ailing masculinity, hear this-

we are not for you. We are not for your
tears as the shock of cold air hits you
square in the gullet. More powerful

than you understand, we watch, can see
the desperate boy, red as an egg,
your failed excuse. Buoyed with need,

the big man- hear your foghorn, feel
the scrabbling, all the -ests then more,
most right, most loud, most sexed.

And all behind your blinds of meat,
the old days gripe- that time you touched
the sleeping girl, the feels you copped,

the castles built and smashed. You know
we know, your default fear, some idiot pride,
your fingers dank with beer, with blood,

the well paid plans that never birth. Don’t
sweat it kid, you’re still alive but brinked
and beached for sure; A kind not long,

your war is done- a violence all unclothed.

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