Written while observing a punk show at the Hexagon Bar in Minneapolis. Play the audio to hear me perform the poem.
Men, thrashing,
they feel, they feel it immensely.
They deserve, they let it out.
They howl until their voice is gone,
they smash, they bang, they collide,
they explode, they destroy, they act,
they are violent, they yell, they jump,
they shake their heads, they annihilate,
they attack, they swell, they roar,
they push and they shove, they throw their bodies,
they jump, they clash,
they scream at the top of their lungs,
they want to feel the heat of the other men’s bodies,
they long for touch, they crave the sensation of being caressed,
of feeling loved,
it flows through their veins,
they can smell it on the other men
they fall to the floor, they want to see blood,
their visions are red, they are not satisfied.
They dance with intensity, the American flag
trampled under foot,
a man sings a primal invocation,
the words come from deep within his body from his lungs
all the way down to the tip
of his penis as he releases into the microphone
and out on to the other men.
They stomp the flag, they spit, they jeer, they grasp and gnaw,
they slip.
Breath,
breath
breath
panting,
beat, beat.
Stop.
The song is over, the shuffling begins.
Get another drink. Go home. Talk to a girl. Shove your hard cock back in your pants. Sit down. Take a piss at the urinal. Pick up the mess you made, or just walk away, you’re drunk anyway, you can’t stand up straight, go home.
The panic, the anger, the violence, the rage, the power, the energy, the strength, the mania,
all of it, gone,
disappeared as fast as it appeared in the first place.
What was it? What was that feeling?
No catharsis, no enlightenment, no deconstruction, no transformation.
Just a hard on, a temporary erection, a momentary glimpse of the ultimate, the orgasm as fleeting as the rapture, the ecstasy as brief as the insight.
Nothing learned, nothing gained. No ego, no ego death. Violence. A smile, confidence, certainty, a smile, the word yes, authority, dominance, masculinity, acting tough, a smirk, assertiveness, being a man.
Being a man.
A man.
A fucking grown ass man.
The Artist’s Newsletter
The Artist uses the newsletter to keep followers apprised of new updates to the website. Are you subscribed?
