endurance and love
chivalry and healing
rugged and poetic
silence and fortress

travel well boy
what a fine rucksack for manhood


I am not a poster boy.
I’m hands; toil, work, fist and palm.
I’m heart; longing, caged, temper and tenderness.
I’m body; scars, agility, strength and fortress.
I’m eyes; vision is given, insight hidden, foresight ten steps ahead, gaze averted.
I care not for your outward fetish for boys.
I am loins, I am bursting seed, ready to impregnate a pure womb.
I’m a man.
I’m the seed and the womb, the soul of the wheel that turns society.
I am seed and earth, sun and water, air and breath,
The poetry of creation, afloat when heaven kisses earth and mist is born.
I am patient gestation.
I’m the bosom of warmth, the lap-nest of home, I’m the gate-less castle,
The birds that hover over it.
I am woman-man, as tender as colostrum bursting nipple,
As rabid as dog eating flesh.
Genderless, gendered physicality, valour and chivalry, my honour.
I am man, I will not hold your hand,
If you desire any less than,
The distance, the expand,
Of a hand span or across vast lands,
About face and address this incessant need to long for the brittle.
If you need a voice to form calluses of lies on your bones,
Of stories, of cliches, of pretty nothing-whispers in the ear of your soul,
Go ahead and find that boy, and be a big girl and don’t cry.
I am a man, I cannot be contained by ‘I am’.


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