Sunday, July 31, 2011

I Am Not Your Man


I Am Not Your Man
(a prosaic poetry based on a half-true story)


I am not that man mother would kindly acknowledge as a son, for at the age of 10 I promised to be someone I am not, today. I am a field of empty promises in a no-man’s land, filled with provinces built on sands. I am not that man dad can be proud of, cause if he is alive and kicking, he’d be ashamed knowing that I am still a womanless man (my dad had 2 wives and 14 kids, I am probably the worse of his seeds). I’ll never be that man whose daughter would introduce to friends. So bad I was a father figure that she'll disfigure any picture she could discover from the drawers of her own misery, throw photos out of the windows and cut samples of male models from magazines as examples of ideal men for her mega dreams. I'll be rendered useful for something useless: a mortar - cemented, a ghost note - augmented, bacteria - fermented, memoria - tormented. If I am the man-made objects of desire desirably objected: I will be an icing, not Iceman, an iron rod, not Ironman, a super glue, not Superman. I’m not a manna that falls gracefully from heaven, maybe a manatee lurking in the Indian Ocean. I will definitely not be my son’s man, cause I would disappoint him with “No Comments”. He’ll go to Mandingo, or travel to Manchuria, he would trade me for mangoes to cure manic hysteria. I’m not the man suited for that managerial post; I cannot manage my anger, way before my menopause. I am not my country’s man, for I'm not armed like a policeman, or made a man in a soldier’s camp. I was the medic (read Me Dick) who’s based in a medical centre, cause they knew that my brain’s displaced, and my mind’s off-centre. I'm the wasted youth marked as rust on the purplish blue-blacks of a haematoma; that pointless speck of dust just like a 2-point size comma. I am not meant to be the man thrust for the main event, I’ll probably breached trust with fraudulent intent. I am not the ladies’ man any Dadaist could comprehend, but a sadist might lament: Give this mad man another chance? I’m in the long list of condemned items in a keeper’s master copy who is manning the commendable traveling menagerie. I am that thin underscores in the hangman’s blanks, the underclassman for the underworld gangs. I am also not my friend’s man, though sometimes they claimed that I’m truly THE man, I defamed them as mockeries disguised as compliments. It is mandatory for you to manhandle me through a manhole of texts, maneuver me one second, dismantle me next. I am that shogun maniac in a Japanese manga, an unspoken mantra from a mandarin saga. The genteel men’s gentleman, I wish much (the kind where kind men can touch mankind). Yet sometimes I feel certain that I’m the man behind the curtain - the man that’s man enough to amend and rethink, before this pen runs out of semen, oops sorry… ink.


So I jived to madness, again.