the measure of man

you wanna measure the man I am in this mean manner, mate?

making it a matter of muscles, like castles of sand,

and the hand! the hand!

oh, how beautiful, you decree,

when it packs a punch,

when it blows a fist.

you insist that I ain’t your brother,

at best a sister,

as in a sissy, a pussy,

a poofter, or a cyst, a blister in your perfect system where

either or are the only alternatives… and you call that freedom.

newsflash:

I realised a long time ago that if sexuality comes down to picking what toys to play with,

dolls for the girls, guns for the boys,

then I’m afraid I don’t tick either box with sufficient conviction

I decided that if gender is a matter of blue or pink,

then I ‘d rather forever merge into purple,

the colour of bruises

lest we forget abuses perpetrated

singularities negated

and still

a tear never trickled down these cheeks

the hurt stayed put, a dog trained never to bark,

let alone bite.

the pain confined and invisible and the pressure

growing on the inside like so much steam

that by age fourteen I could have counselled a guru on self-control,

sixteen and I feasted on the bullies’ abuses like a forbidden fruit

at seventeen my reality of choice was daydream

and by nineteen my voice spoke a different tongue,

because that’s how far I’d run from

those high school halls that seemed built to echo to perfection

their design ensured that each insult would strike with maximum efficiency,

bouncing words off walls like darts in cartoons,

like thunders with a thousand tentacles

- the punch would thump from every angle,

ceiling to floor,

from tickle to kick to the prickly pinch of a blow in the ribs

or the old trick of the ruler whacked on the back of my neck,

remember that?

…

I kinda miss those good old times

sometimes,

when rednecks and teens were my only enemies,

no subtlety required back then

for five to one was the prestige of their little boys’ club

they attacked with the might of the pack

and kicked

kicked and waited till we cracked

and we all agreed I clearly lacked the pedigree

to join in

I had never evaluated virility with the measuring stick of my dick

or by

how far I could piss

never turned a woman into a bitch to wear her

like a badge of honour

but the bullies have turned to ninjas and learned new moves

flying kicks of acceptance,

the bigots have turned to wizards who spin new spells behind the abracadabra’s of

tolerance

and –gosh, how daring!

even gay marriage.

they paint my ghetto pretty and tell me that I’m free

they say things are just peachy,

no need to get preachy.