I want to tell you a story about a man, a man I know. He is not special or exceptional, by any stretch. He is adequate in looks and mental capacity. Perhaps, even below. He is a man of the lord and he wraps his existence around his proclivity for faith. He does not have a job worth noting, or a wife or girlfriend, or even a warm body to ratify his primal needs from time to time. He lives a single, pale and empty existence.
He wakes every morning- barely. He clams and crawls out of a twin bed in his overpriced studio apartment and drags himself across the floor, towing dirty laundry and the remains of his past. He arrives in the bathroom and stares aimlessly at himself in the mirror- perhaps waiting for something to change. He is only dressed in his boxer briefs, and they are tightly and snugly chocking his nether region. His round and protruding belly hangs over his waist line- it is shiny and hairless. He stares at himself and does not see these things. He removes his briefs and lets his belly hang lower, uninhibited and free. He lifts his arms up and bent, and flexes his frail body in the mirror. Sucking in his protruding gut and puffing his man-boob chest. He smiles at himself…but not a real smile. A fake smile. A smile of partial, forced approval with shades of discontent.
He sits on the toilet to pee and maybe shit. He pulls out his cell phone and looks at his life at a glance. Displeased with life he jumps to the web to the porn that soothes his new fetish. He proceeds to jerk himself off as he stares at a phone. Bent over and crooked like a young fetal child. His face reads of self-contempt as he works his way, slowly, to the highlight of his day. He cums with the explosive might of a firecracker dud. He gets up. Showers and rinses himself of bodily function and prepares for a new day.
To be honest, I could continue this story and let you ravel in the doldrums of disdain, that are his existence. Perhaps it will make you feel better about your day. But this story has a point and this point I shall make. This man has religious faith, or least a perverse version, thereof. He has friends, and they never call. This man is broken. Truly and in the deepest way- broken. He is of a broken spirit. And this is the sum of his problems. And this is to the point I will speak.
He is a racist,
an ageist and, quite simply,
a bigot, so clearly.
He votes republican, as family comes first;
upon a soapbox to preach about the sins of faggots, conversed.
He warns of the evils of a Marxist rebellion
to the ear of any man, child or mammalian.
He is poor, defeated, forgotten and oppressed;
you’d think he would be swooning at the poetry of Bakunin and social unrest.
He created an online dating profile to join the ranks of the single and hopeful;
only to give the façade of being prudential and, perhaps, fruitful.
His motives were driven in desire for love,
but then negated by his lack of self-love.
Desperate and lonely he scours the web for a spark,
to fix the wound that bleeds and cries in the dark.
He finds a thumbnail of a woman who looks accepting and fair
and he clicks his way, so he can judge and compare.
He stares at her photo, jaw-dropped and horny,
as she has a boob job and cleavage a plenty.
She’s strong, smart and in complete composure
her wants, needs and desires in full exposure.
But this is too much for our man of inquisition,
as a man of broken spirit will fuck himself over, of his own volition.
He sits in his fake leather chair, shirtless and sweaty;
his day old boxers are careless and covered in spaghetti.
He says to her, “You should not dress like such a whore,
you’re gross and undeserving and an incredible bore,
If you act as a whore you’ll be treated as such,
get a nice guy like me and you wont need so much.”
She wore her heart on the web for all to see,
but this virtual soul was berated by a dark man who floats alone in a dark sea.
She receives his constructive criticism in the wrong light,
and digressed from being polite.
She emails him back, “You’re ugly and pathetic”
and he sits and laughs, as he is utterly and unconditionally apathetic.
He leans back in his lounge chair and puts his arms up and bent in,
creating the shape of a triangle within-
showcasing the symbol of male dominance to his army of one.
For this moment he feels what it feels like to feel whole and one.
He stole her spirit to mend his own;
now he jerks off and sleeps all alone.
I should end this story right there,
as the truth is darker and deeper than you’ll bare.
If he had the balls to speak to her face to face;
would he speak, or just cower in disgrace.
He goes to church to speak and repent;
or really, just to bitch and ignobly vent.
He hasn’t learned that spirituality implies spirit;
or that God accepts people purely on merit.
Online again, he will search and persist.
Hunt and prey as the mobile misogynist.