Archive for the ‘Man-child’ Category

Shtange, Irina Dmitrievna (1906-1992) - Tri Gracii

 

I ask him why men like looking at naked women,

the more,

the better.

“It’s primal…” his slurred reply,

jaw gaping,

“and inspiring.”

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

“That’s the smell of life, baby!”

he said, thrusting the damp Kleenex in my face.

I winced.

Strange, his smell of life…

strongly redolent of dead,

rotten

fish.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

“Flowers?

Why would I give you flowers?”

the man-child said, tear in eye,

“Flowers die.”

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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

 

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.