Men have hands,
honed for hurting.
One or few have
ponds or scum
floating in their
irises. A sharp few
unravel and
live chalked down and
undressed as hunted
prisoners. But they
rape rile rig, with
triumphant beads of
blood circling their
fingers--a lust for
affliction, I see
no difference between
the pain you pick at,
and the shoulders they
tried to root.