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[The following poem contains strong language and imagery. It is presented as an addendum to Let Us Be Slaves No Longer: An Appeal To Men, an essay on sexual slavery. Originally drafted in 2001, the poem is reprinted here for the first time.]

I.

I take all the images of maleness
all the images of manhood
this culture provides,
and I hold them long
distended,
and I jerk them over and over
turgid,
till I ejaculate vitriol
till it falls from me in bitterness;
till I disdain them.
There is the shape to hate
of the chiseled male,
the adonis;
or the noble rake
powerful
handsome
virile
they love to disseminate.
I dispense no praise for wealth,
influence
and the conquistador:
myriad women,
ravaged, teased,
bobbing in a swirling wake
lost in the confluence of past and future
where making love is only flirtation.
The modern man shall have
breadth of wit,
broad scope of ambition,
narrow waist (not necessary)
a large bulge in his wallet,
girth of loins and longevity in the bedroom,
leaving them begging for more.
His charity shall come
not from his sacrifice,
but his excess,
a sign of vested confidence,
of measured success.
This archetype
of masculine identities
is to be sensitive,
sensitive to the women who gather
at lunch and laugh about their husbands,
a wink and a quick joke,
flashing perfect teeth
a practiced, well-timed smile.
I hang limp in the face of these,
these billboards that say size does matter.
I feel the pressure build as I pull and stroke these images,
and I blow,
vitriol spills from my lips
like laughter from the mocking mouths of women
gathered in restaurants at noon.
I disdain the tablecloths.

II.

Glossy advertisement announces
beautiful women don’t buy scotch,
beautiful women don’t buy anything.
Thanks Chivas Regal. Divas regal.
Beauty is pure purchasing power
and men (some of us)
enslaved to lust
will expend their endowment on possession
even for one bleary-eyed night.
Pornographers know that men
shape their lusts into addictions;
we are exploited by the ubiquitous shape
of the female form
paraded before us in our homes,
along highways,
billions of dollars of racy revenue from
silently desperate men.
The solitude of consciousness
protects us from public view
as our thoughts lead us into temptation,
and we look, and look,
and look,
women naked,
waiting,
wanting,
open legs,
pleading for our satisfaction;
our throbbing dissatisfaction.
We penetrate these images,
deeply,
in we rush and we come unprepared
for the guilt that follows,
the messy cleanup of all we wish we weren’t so easily.
Women righteous
angry
parade main streets with
signs protesting the exploited female,
indifferent to the wracked men
who spend their lives in the throes of addiction,
expending their endowment on momentary possession,
secretly secreting,
awaiting exorcism.

III.

Is this the poetry of love, the alluring grammar of romance?

I know what you want, need, baby, I got what you need right here,
and this ain’t no dangling participle,
without a direct object.
You’re my object, baby.
Let’s get straight to the point.
I got what you need.
That’s it, baby.
That’s it.
All of it.
That’s right. That’s right.

It’s a wonder men are so single minded.

IV.

Women objectified,
in print, digitized
mere objects,
disposable dispensers of gratification
rub you just the right way.
That’s right.
The looks in their eyes,
the poses, the
voluptuous
pleasure-seeking faces,
cooing,
oh, big boy you make me so,
these objects objectify me:
they tell me that sex is all I want,
need,
deserve (if I spend enough money on beauty, the right way).
These playmates pet themselves,
waiting for the right option package
to drive them to ecstasy,
around their slippery curves,
over hill and in dale,
in and out of valleys,
in and out,
again and again,
and that is all I am,
all I really want,
driving,
thrusting through gears toward peaks
of well-lubed pleasure,
climaxing in one lonely moment.
(If you want to keep him happy, honey, just give him plenty of)
and that is all we are,
that’s all we want,
you see it in their eyes,
you hear it in their whimpers and gasps,
their pornographic sighs.
Every image,
advertisement,
titillating feature presentation,
objectifies the consumers
mere men
consumed by their vulnerability
awake at night,
self-abused and self-discarded,
wondering why they can’t reach their wives.

V.

Over lunch,
Eve snickers with girlfriends at the loneliness
in the heart of Adam.
(They don’t know.)
Men are just so easy.

It was easier when I was a boy.


©Bill Gnade 2006/Contratimes - All Rights Reserved.