Poor Young Men

Poor young men.

Driven by sexual hunger they watch the girls in the streets,
Their clothes, the way they walk,
Imagine them undressed and lying beneath them,
See them – in their minds eyes – in the shower,
Naked and wet and slippery,
Covered in soap.

Poor young men.

Their culture says ‘NO!’
And the religion they half-believe in says ‘NO!’
And so they try – at first –
Seducing those women who belong outside their world,
Who they can later despise and call loose, immoral,
Treat as dirt,
Not tell their mothers about,
Pretend that nothing – really – ever happened.

Poor young men.

It doesn’t work.

And as they eye the women with hunger
Their hunger turns into a rage,
To furious, incandescent anger (well, it has to go somewhere)
And they begin to insult women in the streets –
‘Slags!’ they scream in their sexual frustration,
‘Whores!’ they shout out,
Furious at their unsatisfied desires,
‘Immoral!’ they scream whilst their loins burn,
‘Bitches!’

This isn’t really enough and so to get closer
And to show how much they hate women (loose women)
They join the religious police.

Poor young men.

Now they can stare and peer,
Insult
And maybe even swear in holy anger,
Now they can get up close and critical and intrusive,
Dirty talk, really, but legitimised,
And noone can question them.

Poor young men.

Some go in in for physical contact,
The slapping and tearing off of clothes in righteous rage,
And the most daring even insist on high-minded
Strip-searches.

Poor young men.

Poor. poor young men!