The End of Men

By | 1 February 2018

The man on the train
the Maths 142 exam at the Showgrounds.
He had used
a Reject Shop catalogue
to form a little tent.

The man at night at the end of my street –
tall, pale, forties, blue shirt, I told the cops.
No, I did not want a patrol.

The man who made my friend at twelve
change schools.

The time late at night
on the tram 19 to Moreland, last stop before depot.
Hydraulics at the doors. A face, brilliant
smiling to the right. The elbow
I got off. He was carried away
to the silence of the depot shed.
Always I wondered
what happened next.
Did he jizz all night
alone in the cavernous dark
among the sleeping trams, just jizz
and jizz?
In the morning when he tried to leave
the gates were locked.
Men began to fall
from a chute in the ceiling. First
they cried out, breaking bones, but the later
arrivals fell on the earlier, and were cushioned.
Women had had enough, had taken the world
at last. Only the tram depot
was for men now. We were building dildos
out in the world where we were free,
beautiful glistening pink dildos with no
men attached to them at all;
we had seen enough.

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