Usurped Heroes

why are men obsessed with comic books and superheroes
fantasizing fanciful scenarios absurd
it’s a culture born of insecurity and privilege
Venus-envy, sexism, contempt, and minds disturbed

so pathetic are they, with their narratives presumed
thinking women to be nothing more than damsels in distress
helpless to do anything beyond awaiting rescue
by masked men draped in garish spandex with emblazoned chests

as ludicrous as this may sound it’s only the beginning
of their self-aggrandized solipsistic penis-driven daydreams
the time and effort they could utilize to gain perspective
is squandered on the furthering of male misogyny

the issue is so greatly obfuscated by the penchant
of male refusal to acknowledge that which they have wrought
in reference to the omnipresent mistreatment of women
as women’s rights have never been more than an afterthought

what is the “male ego” but a flagrant euphemism
for insecurity, violent vindictiveness, and petulance
paranoia, jealousy, self-centeredness, and cruelty
arrogance, entitlement, it’s better i digress

all of which facilitate a tendency toward ignorance
allowing them to justify their actions to themselves
thinking this excuses them from all responsibility
in any consequence which finds their hands upon the helve

the irony of these male narratives of great heroics
fancying themselves as saviors of all humankind
is so fucking incomprehensible in its absurdity
i dare not overthink it lest i lose my fucking mind

so pathetic is it that the most prevalent impetus
deciding how men act comes from a need for compensation
utterly obsessed with focusing on what they’re lacking
the state of their reality is based on indignation

that men would see the woman’s role as creators of life
and regard it only as a function they themselves had lacked
then react by shamefully attempting to usurp biology
by using false religions made for holding women back

is so fucking insidious it speaks of truth in volumes
that no god would ever stand for all of history’s affronts
perpetrated against womankind and by proxy, all children
men, it seems, are willing fools at humankind’s expense

the root of all these vile, sadistic, crude, misinformed notions
that permeates the muddled mindset of men everywhere
is ultimately based in such a primal state of terror
as man’s primary inspiration is his greatest fear

clearly, one can see that superheroes do exist
all one needs to do is analyze the strength and will of women
and the breadth of everything that they accomplish and endure
without whining like a man who takes his anger out on others

i guess it seems to follow that such focus, time, and effort
would be spent validating mechanisms compensatory
you know, instead of things like, gee um, addressing the issue
but not even a muscled man in tights could save this story

[image credit: Frida Kahlo]

Aberrant Sundays

Sunday morning sadists
sing discordant of their greatest sin
a stinging ricochet meets copper
in leather-bound summation of insidious domain

stifling sun of sordid swelter
writhing in self-flagellation
rising welts on skin born sacred

words belie the skies afire
irony left to the gallows
sworn in blood wine
bread of flesh
and symbolic disparity

all the passion reappears
when draped in ire
trapped in painted windows
tainted scenes of glass stained tragic
framed above the haloed heathens

listless martyr ever-looming
unrelenting sting of stigma
fingers crossed in accusation
pointing toward our innate state

of human beings being human

and then to see such opulence
flaunted about so garishly
attached to hands soliciting alms
from desperate indigents in worship

shameful exploitation stretching far beyond reproach
as the spoils of their devout extortion
are soon transposed to golden thread
to sew the splitting seams of pockets brimful

dismal are the dreams fixated on barren subsistence

what is reaped are mindsets of maniacal indoctrination
self-fulfilled by fearful deluge
ethical paralysis of covert imparting
compromising our capacity to comprehend
the consequences of our actions

framing death as moral answer
sacrifice of so called “soul”
a sentence served of self-inflicting
orchestrated by a savior
intrinsically born of usurping
based on baneful male womb-envy
guiding men with egos fragile

terminally compensating
gravely vying for control
through brazen claims of self-appointing
pathological presumption

placating their perceived lacking
tactless hordes of form barbaric
storm the streets to spread their poison
pious perpetrators of a violence unprecedented

viciously conniving for a self-sought absolution
through the veil of our avowal
of their never-ending avarice

they gaily flaunt before our faces
wonted are we to submit
and worse

to serve as known accomplice

Sunday morning moral comeuppance
plundering our forlorn plight
frightful death and heaven’s scorn
adorn the good book’s turning pages

if there still remained even a shred
of our humanity
it would be the first thing

we would burn

[image credit: Frank C. Pape]

Extant Toll

reeling from the shrill assail
falls entropy surreal
shrieking past in amaranthine streaks

present will
spawn futures fading

fanning flames
of phantom fears

the silphium of self-affliction

arms outstretched

wretched hands of spider-like accosting
insistent to collect the extant toll

mortals of a moribundity
so profoundly mundane

stranded on ledges
of bridges burned
at oblivion’s edge

a futile spiral of lament
into event horizon

[image credit: Freydoon Rassouli]

Momentary Introspection

perhaps i need a pointed slap in the face
rambling on in these fits of dolor
shameful displays of vulgar isolationist privilege
my natural state is one of positivity and emotional support
found when i consider others
but once i turn the looking glass inward
my world turns on its head
its dormant horrors readily fall from my cryptic thoughts
despite my adamant belief
that i am of a circumstance no worse than others
in fact, i live by the belief
that other’s plights eclipse my own
i feel like such a wretched child
parading about in all my pain
which might serve to allay my suffering
but i do fear i’ve crossed the line
this is not a plea nor pander
it is a fleeting flight of ponder
likely, soon found tucked away
obscured by thoughts effusive

 

[image credit:  John Bauer]

Pointed Lessons

the abstract tapestry of thought and emotion
sifting through memories
persisting beyond the toll of midnight

a surreality poignance fraught
amidst your fabled absence

through context into lucid light
those wayward flecks take flight

seeing now
the urgency defining bated breath

hindsight is a bird unbounded
heaven’s haste begets unheeding

by the merit of its taste
left on the tongue in lingering

how is it that voices lacking tangible disclosure
visibly vociferate through vales
our verities unseen

only to be vetted in the aftermath
of fate’s denouement

moments later, vested virtues
forsaken anew

by the nighest conscious duress
of my conscience’s affording

i will honor your bestowing
in the bastion of my breast

pray not let these pointed lessons fall
when life resumes its pique

[image credit: Edouard Goerg]

Pathos of Recalcitrance

of course i lie
i’m only human

that aside, one sick of liars
i can justify my libel
yours, i dare not ponder freely

far beyond this ten-foot pole

your willful words of skillful squander
dangle at aberrant angles
fraught with such finagled ire

were that i could only trust you
unlike me, your ship has sailed
destined for abhorrent harbor
drowned in ardor so reviled

solely, to the death, indignant
figments framed as picture-perfect
truth absconded, lost in the morass

endless grabs for abstract fragments
stabbing blindly at the dark
puzzles pieced extemporarily
tenuously strung as art

how you manage without tire
mystifies the misled mind
wandering through gaslit tunnels

taciturn, you spurn the last
this pathos of recalcitrance
sits pithless to the bitter end

[image credit: J.W. Fores]