Way back in my day all men were real men,
We weren’t scared to help we weren’t insecure,
We were all open books but just make sure
You don’t look to come to me for advice,
About mental health or about your vice.
I’m here for you let’s be crystal clear.
I can help you if your car can’t change gear,
Or if you have a problem with the steer,
If it fails to start when you turn the key,
I’m here man, don’t worry, I have jump leads.
I told you, man, I’m always here for you,
Just don’t get the situation confused,
I don’t mean to be insincere or rude
But that feelings stuff is a load of muck.
Life is always rough, so men must be tough,
We like girls, cars and explosions and stuff,
We like fighting, football and monster trucks.  
We like manly-men, men-who-don’t-feel-men,
Not as in men who don’t like to feel men,
More men-who-can’t-express-how-they-feel-men.


When I was young I was the biggest fan of being “a man”,
Of being strong and never crying, because that is wrong.
Of football games and internalising pain from things that "shouldn’t hurt".
Until one day when I was sitting on my bed,
I was crying, and not because I banged my head,
Or not because of what someone said,
Or not because that character in Toy Story was dead,
But for no reason.
I just felt sad.
My Mother came in the door, looked at me,
And swore that everything was okay.
I said “I’m sorry for crying,
I don’t know what’s wrong with me today,
I just feel upset.”
She said, “Son, there hasn’t been a man yet
Who hasn’t cried because they were sad,
Most of them just don’t say.”
And see I cried in my mothers arms that day,
And I don’t see how that could have done me any harm,
To know that when I feel upset it is okay to cry.
We don’t have to put up a front and try
To act like “men” and seem just fine
When in reality we’re constantly balancing on a line
Between fear of people’s perception of us as soft
And having our emotions engulf us and finding ourselves lost.
Our culture causes confusion for little boys
Who think they have to play with army toys
And get in fights with other tikes to show their “manliness” and might,
Until their spite builds up inside them, so tight,
That it explodes down the line
When we say we’re fine
But really inside exists a mine of insecurity.
Because toxic masculinity is a sin to me
And leads to bigotry and other stupidity like
Rigidity and conformity to chauvinistic and sexist normalities.

Try putting on someone else's shoes.
Sometimes they might fit,
If coincidentally they just so happen
To be the same size as yours.
But they probably won’t be.
You see you’ll try to squeeze in their trainers,
And then complain that all you felt was pain
When your thumb got squashed when you tried to peel
It out from under your heel
But you just brush it off like it’s no big deal.

Everyone’s feet are different, and it would be ignorant
To presume that yours could fit in everyone’s shoes.
Some people’s kicks are fresh and new
And when you weirdly smell them
You realise they don’t even smell like shoe.
Just make sure you’re alone in a safe location
So you don’t end up in the familiar situation
With your friend standing there looking at you,
With his Vans in your hand and your nose in his shoes.

Some people rock the high heel look,
But bear in mind this won’t suit everyone all the time;
Some people are scared of not sporting socks.
Some people’s caved arches cause hardship
When they try to cavort carelessly.
6 inches is a sensitive subject for some sensitive subjects
Who would rather dismember their member than
Tamper with their outward image of masculine male muscle man.

It is okay to not have one size fits all feet.
It’s more of a feat to have unique toes
That don’t form normal rows, trust me.
Stand out from the crowd like a mic-drop on karaoke night.
Or when you buy too-small flip-flops and your baby toe
Decides to take it’s own path in life.

No two feet were created the same but all feet are equal.
That means everyone under the sun can rest assured,
Because we all have secured a place in the foot-halls of fame.
And we have all left our footprint in the footnotes of history.

Walking fast on the street and trying to pass a stranger that you meet
You pace right and he goes left
But his left and your right are the same
So you turn back the other way
And so does he
And your paths meet on the same plane, again
Or when you meet an acquaintance,
An annoyance,
Someone you don’t care to keep in your correspondance
And you foolishly stop them, make eye contact,
And say “Long time, no see, Tim”
And both Tim and you know this is small talk;
Teeny Tiny talk,
Tiny Wincy, terse, torturous talk
Teemed to the top with
Trying-To-Remember-Times-Together or
Things-That-Tim-Likes-To-Do-To-Tie-His-Terrible-Life-Together
­So you start it with the classic “Jesus, it’s great weather.”

When I think back on that night I always laugh.
I probably shouldn't, but I do.
I laugh at our conversation on the stairs,
Lying on the cold, wet ground,
Just laughing at each other.
I laugh when I imagine us not knowing each other
At the start of the year and how,
When I talked to you, neither of us
Knew what one thought of the other.
I laugh because that seems so far away.
Because now when I talk to you it seems
Like we've known each other forever.
Like there was never a time when I stood
Awkwardly in front of you,
At someone's house who I didn't know,
With a drink in my hand trying not
To make a complete fool of myself to you.

I laugh when I imagine how funny
We must have looked that night.
How the birds or the sky must have looked down
On two drunken kids falling through a gate,
Telling each other things they would regret
The next day, or month.
I laugh when I imagine how "scandalous" it all was.
How for months after we would look back and smile
On that day, and wonder how we ever got to this point.

Now it all seems so far away;
Sitting in Smokies after the library,
(Only for 20 minutes though because
I need to get up early tomorrow, seriously Lochlan),
The hot chocolate rendezvous (definitely not dates),
Or sitting in Moyola with Morg and Meg,
Laughing at how ridiculous we all are.

I laugh at how ridiculous it all was,
And I wouldn't change it for the world.

The thought of leaving you grows near now,
But I shall return.
And while I'm gone others will replace me.
I hope they appreciate you as I do.
I hope they look out on you and feel what I felt,
And I hope they go home and try to put it into words,
But can't. As I have.
I hope you change their lives, as you have for me.
I hope they build and destroy with you, as I have.
I do not want to be away from you and what you hold for me,
But it is not you who controls that. You are merely a vessel.
You carry with you my hopes and dreams,
My love and fear,
And that scares me. I have invested in you.
I tore away years for you, years I will never see back.
You have changed me.
I am different to who I was before, or so they say.
But they are gone now and it is you who stands before me.
You and those who you carry. Those ideas and attitudes and experiences.
I have to leave you soon, but I will return.

At the bus depo the old man stood waiting
And was too hot in his brown chord trousers
And brown tweed cap.
The others stood along the wall
Beside the man; a woman with a pram,
The young people in shorts waiting to get the bus
To go to somewhere nicer than this, to swim and play
And laugh. But not the old man.
He smoked a lonely cigarette and watched as the others
Walked onto the bus to leave the depo,
To go to a seaside town or quiet village or anywhere
That wasn't this concrete aisle for lonely journeys.

The old man left the depo on his bus alone,
And after he was gone the buses continued to run,
Children continued to laugh and other old men
Felt too hot in brown chord trousers and brown tweed caps.

The birds sat idle on the grassy hill
No movement occured, except for the shrill
Callings of my elated teenage voice
I rolled down the ***** on my transit of choice,
My newly purchased two wheel machine
The birds flew away; it was only a dream.

Do not call after me; I am gone.
Just like the tumor of hope
Which once rested on this man's
Weak spirit: now crushed.
Not harmed by sound nor sight
But woken by this troubolous world,
In which man's opinion serves only as
Folly for this totalitarian hierarchy.
The hierarchy of needs: the needs of pigs and
Swine who rob us blind and order cuts only
On those who cannot speak for themselves.
These vultures target the weak.
Not us who call for what is right; but those
Whose sense of right is blurred and hazed
By these high positions of power and praise.
Such zeal for the wrong cause; such a shame.
Be gone such parasites; be gone.