Everyone knows one of them, the men who are #notallmen –

They are the ones who have no opinion

just facts and considered views, which they cling to

like a real estate agent to a slice of ocean

who fantasize about swooping down on a vortex

of social media feminism, and dispelling its force

with a single tone-deaf injection of reason, like:

‘are you aware that men are statistically more likely

to be assaulted’ or ‘funny that no-one wants to discuss

male suicide rates’, lamenting Clementine’s swear words

and pitting rational debate against hysteria

as if explaining the mechanics of a carburetor
They are the ones who take it personally

like a kid who thinks his sister got a bigger

serve of ice-cream. Who won’t recognize

the behaviour Clementine condemns

because it doesn’t come from them

because they love women, their boss is a woman

and they always leave the toilet seat down.

Who squall about equality as they brandish their

hashtag syllogisms, as if feminism were a

false premise because it does not attend

to the rights of men, and how dare she
post a man’s private message for all to see

the man who writes: ‘You should be raped

you fucking man-hating feminazi’, before

pointing out that she is too ugly to be raped

as if to be raped could also be a compliment

reserved for an attractive Tinder date

the man who utters pig, dog, slut, cunt with red-eyed relish

as if each noun possessed a natural equivalence

whose private words sit nestled to the right

of his profile picture, where he smiles

with cheeks pressed to his two daughters
And when I stare at these men and their belligerent eyes

set in a frozen Facebook smirk, I wonder

how deeply their male gaze penetrates

what they see when they look into the eyes

of their wives while they thrust inside them.

What do they think when those daughters

grow into their limbs? Would they rather protect

their girls from women like Clem or men like them?
They are the men who think women can’t be funny

who assess a woman’s body as if it were a work in progress

an architectural draft of their dream holiday home

who are incensed by Clementine’s red lipstick

because her smile is not theirs to own

because they hate the idea of her, the idea of a woman

who renders them irrelevant by giving zero fucks

who speaks their unspoken assumptions, inviting them

to prove her right with every toxic rebuttal
They are the man in the bar who plants

his fat keys on the table and stands

with a thumb hooked over his belt

drinking his beer in slow, measured draughts

who wants the women chatting near him

to feel the weight and heat of his presence

who thinks it an affront if his boozy desire

is not acknowledged, yet takes offence if it is

because he was just trying to be friendly

who thinks his reflex quotidian leer is a compliment


because his desire needs to be legitimised

and could be, with a simple titter

or a smooth palm on his forearm

so just fucking lighten up, why don’t you?
They are the man walking towards me

on the footpath, on a clear blue day

who will size me up and then bunch

his doughy shoulders, and keep going

gun-barrel straight, eyes aimed at the edge

of my temple, like a misfired gaze

inviting the collision, daring me

to be the sort of man

who hates Clementine Ford.