The 3 types of men

This poem separates the stanzas

to separate the different kinds of men.

Now this is gonna sound like a poem for the ladies,

but it’s really just a note for the boys

because fella’s, the snakes are in the grass

and we want to know where you stand.

Out where the blades weave over our feet

and all out toes become blind fingers.

Where do you stand?

This is where a feeling of retribution

has us mixing up our words,

a desire to help has us twisting definitions.

A safe space is becoming synonymous with like-minded opinion,

and the word ‘Trigger’

is being used as a warning for foul language

and we still don’t know what to do.

I think we’re going to rip some skin off with this band-aid

because this is a world

where the doctors are the last to know

and on our own,

we’ve each let an olive branch die in our hands.

Now I’ve heard rumours,

facebook rumblings,

as blatant as its own website

and courageous as the most honest of expressions.

So this is now a poem for those snakes in the grass,

those would-be poets

stealing their words from the actions they insinuate

and the stories that they fabricate

and we need to face the fact that we’re already friends on facebook.

Now I’m talking to my fellow men,

just because women can do this alone,

doesn’t mean we need to leave them alone to do it.

We need to thin the herd,

like plucking weeds from our beds,

we need to take a step back and view each other like the cat in Schroedinger’s box,

dead and alive

guilty and innocent

until that box is opened

and we all become seen for the things we’ve eaten,

because if we ignore this much longer

that box will just be filled with the dead kittens nobody wanted anymore.

In Spoken Word

there is a light side and a dark side to the force,

so be careful because there are spells in the proper use of metaphor

so these either are… or,

these aren’t the droid’s you’re looking for.

We cant ignore that our wool is no longer made for warmth,

but rather something to be pulled over the eyes of the unsuspecting,

like that friendly text message sent at midnight.

Just like there are 3 sides to every story,

mine, your and what really happened,

there are 3 types of men.

And some of us want to show the world

that we represent more than just physical strength

because the strength you have is fleeting,

falling through the fingers you think you can actually feel something with,

you’re the type that still goes to the length

that suffocates the people you hold down,

so to that one type;

You’re the reason we’re not trusted

and it makes me feel a little violent

because you’re using us

to get to them

and if that makes us the middle men

then our type will move at once

and stop you from hiding in our shadows

like the air there gave you breathing room

until your hands followed up on your eyes expectations.

There are those of us who hope you meet the sharp end of a knife

so what you need to do is hop a train and run for you fucking life.

But even though we get heated

and our instant reply

while we jump to her side

is to be supportively LOUD!

And express our desire to HIT SOMETHING!!

But we’re learning…

a trigger is something that might force back a memory into someone else’s mind,

but then there’s body language

something as simple as reaching for a cup too quickly,

or the coincidence

of a shared walking path late at night.

So this is a poem to separate the men from the boys,

because our eyes are open,

we’ve stopped looking and now we’re hunting,

we will find you out for what you really are

and we wont have to give you a trigger warning

because what you’ve done to others has never been done to you

so we will only tell you this…

You are no longer welcome

Your pencils are too phallic

and there are those of us

who want to staple you to the wall with every pen you’ve ever touched.

But violence…

violence, we already know we’re capable of,

so we choose to leave it in the only strength you have left

because you’ve put us in a position

where we can only face our sisters

by turning our backs on you,

well I’m looking at her now

and together we have more than just strength,

collectively we have the power over memory

a power you couldn’t imagine,

to make sure that you’re forgotten.

We can delete every lie you’ve ever recorded

and whatever’s left will be loaded

with comments and links to who you really are

and only your reputation will be attached to your name

and the cringe that shivers down her spine

will become the only thought that follows the image of your face.

even your greatest poems will become nothing more

than the words you’ve stolen

because the locks on our doors have no idea

if you’ve got a key, or if they’ve been picked,

but we know you’re in the room

and most of us are guilty

we’ve heard things we’ve dismissed

thinking ‘That’s not so bad’, or ‘That’s kinda funny’.

we’ve heard others things we’ve dismissed

and ended the thread of that thought

like scissors were more than a couple of one-sided blades.

In these times

we allow ourselves to feel busier than we really are,

so quickly rubbing our days together

just to make it through the week,

so to every last one of us

we’ve let our excuses become our alibi’s.

Only half listening just to keep the boat from rocking,

but there are some things

being late for cant be apologized for,

but we’re still sorry.

We’re sorry it took a website and the size of a spokeswoman’s name,

but for what it’s worth

a lot of us would like to join you,

a lot of us feel as though we already have

and a lot of us would like to know for sure

who the some of us really are,

show you that the some of us

are not the sum of who we are.

But we cant help stop something

if we cant see the individuals,

to put a face to the name

like a shiver in the room.

So from this moment on, every sing-up list I organize

will keep an empty space where your poems used to be

and not a single name will be called.

We will remember you for what you really are,

the patriarchy that hides in art,

like the bruise in the fruit that begins from the inside,

because men like you are the reason

why women bleed in the wrong way,

the reason our history is told in riddles,

the reason we had slave ships

and heard English off the lips of children lost in a residential school.

We’re turning our backs on you,

so our faces can finally face a freedom

where the merger of patriarchy and ideology

will one day have too many broken fingers

to even attempt to remould the forms of who we choose to be.

Advertisements

About Sean O'Gorman

Spoken Word poet from Ottawa. View all posts by Sean O'Gorman

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: