Cut men

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.