sure, we're caring for the demographics,
a black hospital nurse
                           manages to own a mercedes benz...
huh?
          how did that happen?
                  a bunch of nigerians
   "business men" manage
to buy out all the new flats in a new building...
white priv.    white priv. they say...
             nigg'ah gonna shoot!
they still call us communists... never mind,
       i have no rhetoric for hyperboles...
  one muslim dies at a mosque... everyone goes
nuts! a muslim woman walks up to
           a politician and says: i'm afraid to
raise my children in this country!
   one word answer: manchester.
                       i knew and i try to forgive myself
into forging alliance with the zeitgeist narrative...
whether social or mainstream media...
   but sometimes, it's almost like ulysses
     not tied to the mast of the ship, mad, being
dragged to the depths by the song of sirens...
     and this is what media has become...
the song of sirens: as if you, really really,
     but not really, need to provide an opinion...
to the oars men!
                           past these crevices
                            of schizophrenic insinuations.
ah... but the title...
                  this is not an anti-feminist poem...
sure... allow men to join the army,
   make a fetish of demographic representation
being adequate, in the army...
          i've worked on a construction site?
          you know how many women are on
a construction site? perhaps in the kitchen...
      i've seen only one brick-layer, a butch woman...
she could butcher a cow with her bare hands...
there will always be more women in the army
than in the construction site...
       imagine, these days, being a industrial-sized
roofer, tarring a roof, in a heat-wave of
                    over 30 degrees... at the boiler?
over 50 degrees...
            women are more rare in the construction
industry, than in the, ******* army.
          oh please, come along... join the construction
industry army... lift 40kg of felt,
   and 45kg of mineral felt, and carpet
  the roofs of tall buildings...
                   in the 90s, roofers could still wear
shorts... now, they're boiling eggs in
    long jeans... and the radios were banned
    in the industry...
          sure, it's safe as hell, for it is hell,
     but glum and boring as an office job,
  that needs sit-coms and jokes...
                                   like i once said:
    i completed the scottish widows' h.q. building near
st. paul's...
  more women in the army, than in the construction
industry...
     this is not an anti-fe poem...
                    oh please, come along!
       in a place where there's so much concrete,
fresh roofing tar smells just as infatuating
as freshly cut grass where there's so much earth.
more women will join the ceremonial
procession of a weak army,
than join a strong industrial army of a strong
work-force...
      odd... i've never managed to spot
feminism making an insurgence into roofing...
            *****, shut the **** up!
you go and cover 100 sqm of a flat roof in a day
in over 30 degree heat...
     you do that... then you can moan
your little bourgeoisie swan song;
which is odd... since writing this so called
     "poetry",                   i feel castrated,
although internalised... my ***** are bulging,
and tickling my perception of things...
     i watered the garden, and cooked a bbq...
           oh well...
     ever wonder why construction workers are
anti-gym-culture of office workers?
    ******* krawaciaże, office hamsters...
    paper pile (a), vs. paper pile (b)...
                   more women in the army,
                 than in the construction industry;
less yoga, less yoga, less yoga,
                    oh don't join the army!
                            get into construction!
   then tell me that prostitution needs a tear;
you lift a 40kg roll of felt,
                              or a 30kg doughnut of
hot-melt, and drop it into a furnace of
                                                       a boiler.