The grip comes softly,
like a tangling web.
An annoyance on the skin,
no screams, jerks, nothing to turn his head.
But slowly it grows,
spiralling out of control.
Lining every crevice,
a mind ready to be pulled, it’s got hold.
Suddenly, one day, he wakes in the middle of the night,
blistered in sweat,
he’s preparing for death,
his world’s about to fall, there’s no safety net.
His breathing is staggered,
he’s stumbling for the reins,
or maybe he is lying awake,
counting the hours, minutes and days.
When the sun’s up and out,
he tells himself all’s well.
He ignores the pull that says, come and explore,
but soon, the voice begins to yell.
His mind is rapid sprinting,
did he say, do, remember to lock the door before he left?
Is he to blame, a useless guy, his usual frame,
a broken spirit from childhood, he’d rather forget.
He does not need extensive counselling,
or journals or friendly heart-to-hearts,
not when he’s a man,
such things are the opposite of what he was taught.
Boys don’t cry, they shout or they steel,
they give as good as they get, without fear.
They provide the most, success and fancy suits.
Never afraid, video game player, ya ready for war? Here’s it, it’s near.
When our boy murdered Annelene at work,
the shooting of Monique in the parking lot,
Was Debbie afraid? Her lifeline severed without consent.
Our child, Anene, brutalised, and Susan too, their places now blank dots.
These boys now men…
we are losing our sons, if we ever had them,
their sweet innocence spoiled and crushed,
what must we do to save our brothers, ourselves, a shared grief without name.
But hey, boys are not raped or assaulted,
just a grab on the wrestling mat,
Guantanamo fun or training Pakistani boys to be dancers,
sports coaches, TV celebs, they all despise a rat.
Proper consent is not a thing for a boy, we think,
he is born to drown in the sea sexual,
an appetite he can hardly control,
why shouldn’t high school come home, there’s no rest for him.
Tell a preschool boy to call you,
when he’s eighteen,
Laugh it off,
he’s a heartbreaker, a future fresh meat.
And we laugh with you,
why not?
Boys are boys,
they are not us.
Are we going to talk about commodifying human bodies?
Imagery on kids videos, ads, sexualising on video game chats,
porn addiction, normalising incest, teenage-adult sex,
boys as young as ten know where it’s at.
Are we going to talk about forcing boys into boxes?
Do you have a girlfriend in grade one?
Exposing boys to vulgar language, cruel pranks on little ones, an online fame,
we are told it’s all in good fun.
When a boy is desperate for inclusion, acceptance,
imagine what he’d say or do in popular’s deference,
and how many are looking for community, for love,
drug running, gangs, bullying, sexual experimentation, do you really need a reference?
We will send them to war,
call them heroes,
after and before,
never curious, whether war games,
were what they were meant for.
We will tell them it’s fine,
to prep for mass shootings before lunch,
they should be fine with supreme camps saying, “those people” have smaller brains,
and when their inner ache begins, we’ll say toughen up, here’s some boozy punch.
When boys hammer their facial features,
to look like some guy named Chad,
we call them stupid or pathetic,
our babies, they need us, theirs is a massive red flag.
The boys told they’re meant to provide,
a God said so, read from the history cultural book out loud,
but when they say, we can’t afford a house, a car, fucking lobola or a gold ring.
Does that make them failures, a waste of space? Who led them there? Not a sound.
Boys living at home,
seeing the lived dreams wafting from upstairs,
they wish they could have, not all, just some.
They’re hustling for just outcomes, a mad sad despair.
Are we going to mention the impact,
of fatherlessness worldwide,
the dads there, not there, emotional neglect,
a moving statue, who sees and offers little, his owed money aside.
We think abuse is a punch in the gut, to the cheek,
what about being called names,
you’re not good enough, you’ll be slapped for an opposing view,
oppression is role-modelled, their spirit being maimed.
Will the boy know what to do,
when disappointment or rejection melts into rage.
Is papa bear doing the introspective work,
to be his boy’s wise, family sage.
Does hurting mum or dad in front of our boys count?
spousal cruelty, excuses, bullying in front of innocence.
Mothers and grandmothers full of rage,
there’s plenty of boys prevented from transcendence.
We talk of violence, criminal or behind doors,
almost all boys, who set the rules? Can they resist or go far?
In what ways did we set up our babes blue to fall,
they’re not monsters, behaviour monstrous, they’re ours, something’s wrong, they need their mamas.
When they give you a blank stare, making choices poor to bad,
How are we failing them?
What is missing or hurtful?
Why do they avoid us, rather turning to herds of lost lads?
Boys, Boys, there they are,
Our innocent, born as pure as the female root,
needing our protection, our understanding, help them!
class, colour, religion, they are all our young, precious shoots.
