Among boys perversely aware of their timidity,
And men in denial of the chill undercutting their everything.
In conversations run past their course and turned dust dried,
Amidst clouded urges to satiate the blood thirsty hound within.
Is it not often a pattern to broach upon the macabre, the dreadful?
With unrestrained, uninhibited, vociferous energy bring forth
Blood and gore, nails and hammers, excreta and pus, severest violations and basest outrages?
To commit to the hilt with resounding, self-assured drone of shared hostility,
Heinous crimes of sorts but of words and language of derogation,
Against the all too usual destined targets – the fair skinned and the frail,
The non-numerous and the historically burdened?
To feed our darkness, to keep our monstrous potential and abilities in store for cold cruelty,
Nourished, lubed and in working condition.
We maintain an inner furnace of diabolic for needed times,
And in company of a trusted network pour out utter profanities and ugliest vulgarities,
In what novel ways can a person be tortured to death and a woman modest or a girl immaculate can be ravaged beyond hopes of repair?
And followed by a shared bout of thunderous laughter,
We feel reassured of our efficacy as men by exposing in a round about way our primitive bluntness.
Experience relief in the shared spectacle of the cold-blooded reptilian the entire human edifice is built upon.
It is all too common and necessary too.
However, the other day a new voice emerged,
A voice of humiliated passivity.
The worst possible violence is to simply leave one to die, to rot slowly, hopelessly– without reasons and without answers.
And with a suppressed sadistic smirk, the hallmark of the wretched spineless, nudged further.
Made us to ask ourselves,
Is it not what life is?
The indifferent universe reducing us all to waste through the agency of nature, impassive and unconcerned?