We are all cut men.
Cut from our mother’s chord,
with its threat to strangle us beyond the womb
or tie us to a cleaner version of ourselves
for sisterly consumption.
Cut from our father’s dream for us,
our failures punished with word and hand,
our mother-love is on the list
of unforgivable treacheries.
Cut from our partner’s love,
with its evolving, slippery conditions
fashioned in childhood and femolution
and guilting our own evolution, as if wilfully chosen.
Cut from true fatherhood
by Hollywood fantasia
and the crushing weight on the balls
of our selfish, restless feet.
And cut from each other
by the spun-glass phallusies of prowess
and the trashing of our historical domains
and the fear of being fucked in the arse.
We are all cut men
and our lack of healing will be the death of us.