Women are made with vacancies,
By nature, to be filled from within, or without,
As long as blood is spilled.
But, blood is blood and holes made whole
Assuages the demand. It matters not whose blood it is;
Her own or of a man.
Men are drawn together, not of need,
But vacancies; doomed to fill instinctual roles
No less complex than the bee's.
It is only the complexity of vacancies
Of women, that summons ancient, latent rages
That turn men into vermin.
Men are made of Brotherhood
Defined by competition: taboo to touch, taboo to love,
But sanctioned by aggression.
They dumbly rush with lust and pride (like sperm)
To plant their semen, but why is it at harvest-time
You'll look and see no men?
This cavalier-ish attitude, with which men have
Been saddled, runs counter to the cultural myth:
Men's brains are sound, not addled.
Women left alone, with children by their side,
Leaves me to ponder little holes (with vacancies
I have suspicions about men; their great and logical minds,
And wonder again where the REAL hole is (with the vacancy inside).