Archive for the ‘Man-child’ Category

Man-child reflects,

deflects,

projects:

All the prostitutes I know are actresses,

and

all the actresses I know are prostitutes.

He smiled to himself,

depth considered,

certain

no offence intended.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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The fashionista proclaims that you can tell a lot about a man by his wristwatch, his chosen timepiece.

Like, he may not be able to afford an appropriate car to reflect his vibe, but with a well-chosen watch he can convey his hopes and aspirations, his essence and being.

The man-child looks down at his unadorned wrist and smiles,

wondering.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Nadezhda, my lifeline,

my hope and dream,

if only,

I had a woman like you

to lie next to each night,

nothing else would matter.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Like most men, he didn’t much care about the wider world,

just so long as he got to see

pussy.

Closed city.

Closed society.

Menial labor.

All OK,

So long as open pussy.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

The man-child was titillated,

excited,

fascinated

and disappointed,

to see his heroine

exposed thus,

pulling herself apart,

open,

intimately,

for all to see.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

That man over there:

the one with the gun,

the captain of industry,

the politician,

the terrorist,

the outcast,

pretty much every man…

Underneath it all:

the façade, the bravado, the indifference,

he’s still the same little boy who likes to wear stripy underpants.

 

©ddr7hd

 

The machine works,

ruthlessly,

the cogs grind me yet further,

marginalized

and screwed over

on a whole nother level.

Bureaucracy discriminates

illogically,

pedantically,

and with extreme fucking prejudice.

Bit by bit they are taking things away,

pieces of myself

being trashed.

Perhaps tomorrow I will simply disappear,

it seems to be what the system wants.

… My obliteration.

He sees his neighbours “getting on” with ease and wonders. He despairs at his lot.

What next for the man-child?

Suicide?

That’s what they want, indeed:

another fucked-up statistic to fuel the machine,

money,

corruption,

news cycle,

policy.

The man-child swallowed hard.

It was strange, no one seemed to understand him these days. So many attempts to communicate did nothing but frustrate. Sigh.

He felt so alone.

To function, he normally drank three beers each night. Tonight he felt he needed another. It would help, calm. Then more preparation, action, and no more talk. Tomorrow would be stressful.

Tomorrow would be good.

 

I have a soulmate.

I had a soulmate?

I remember the beautiful years and days when we were close.

Poetic and sublime, words don’t suffice.

Beautiful.

Bliss.

Sigh.

Then time and people, situations and circumstance,

messed things up,

sullied and discordant,

and an awkward, spasmodic communiqué

became our way.

Tomorrow is her Birthday

and I want to give her my all,

to tell her I love her, madly and deeply,

but there is a distance and a barrier,

so all I can do is give her a few words.

Insufficient and frustrating.

Such is life,

Katyusha.

C’est la vie,

fucked and pained.

The man-child, such as he can put together a string of thoughts, begins to realize that the older he gets the more attracted he is to younger women. At some point the women become girls (but really, society agrees, that definition is blurry…).

It’s got something to do with touching what he has lost, trying to regain what he never truly had.

Pity him and loathe him. Sneer at him and respect him. After all, the man-child is coaching your children’s team. … And sometimes he is in fact a woman, and sometimes she is your wife, and sometimes it is your children who do the abusing, and sometimes you really need to shut your eyes because life needs to be something else, to cope. Sigh, to hope.

Hope unites us as people under God.

Yes, hope.

Hope, isn’t that what the man-child is doing? Hoping he can “get some”!

Hope.

And abuse.

…