Jack

Trigger warning.

There but for fortune – the sadness of a story.

In a space of raging toxic fear

and the scent of drunken unloved beer

and the sense that darkness lingers here,

see the path to the shameful manosphere.

For a lad whose dad showed distant love

to a fist in a twist in a boxed up glove

where words uncaring lead to a shove

and a banging door in the room above.

From a shout to a clout, from a look to a fuck

to an elbowed bruise was the route he took.

Now Jack he wasn’t entirely bad

but he had these moods when it all went mad

and he knew these moves that he’d learnt as a kid

when he watched his dad and the things he did.

He’d gone to a school where toughness mattered

where top boys crowed and the weak got battered

where the eyes of others looked away,

where boys will be boys, so let them play.

Now Jack was bright but not that bright

and he lived in a world where might was right

where disrespect would lead to a fight

and you didnt say sorry cos that’s just shite…

Jack had mates and they hung in a crew

and together their masculine energy grew,

the girls were scared with the world they knew

but they couldn’t figure out what they needed to.

Now Jack was twelve when he swore at his mum

when he called her a bitch for the things she’s done,

when she told him no he couldn’t have more

he’d raved and ranted, slammed the door.

He went to his dads with his music blaring

spoke to his dad who was way past caring

said that ‘the bitch’ was clamping his style

could he please move in with his dad for a while?.

Now dad was busy with the things he did

and some of these things were better off hid

so he told Jack no, he couldn’t stay there

‘go back to your mum, get out of my hair.’

Jack went back with a rage inside

which might have released if tears were cried,

but boys don’t cry if they know what’s what,

so his anger grew in a bubbling pot.

When Jack got home his mum was upset,

the lights were out and the pillow wet.

she’d seen in Jack the shape of the man

who’d bruised her face with the back of his hand,

who’d spent his wages full of drink

who’d kick the dog and wouldn’t think

who’d loved her once with shoddy heart

who’d promised love till death does part

but disappeared when Jack was born

addicted to both pills and porn

who’d never sent a single dime

or offered space for daddy time.

who’d fathered two or maybe more

with other mums behind closed doors.

A man who lived life in the manosphere

with toxic mates and hidden fears

with lurid looks and longing leers

on the hunt for another one drawing near.

This story isn’t all that rare

there’s Jacks and Jackies everywhere,

there’s mums and dads who got it wrong

there’s sadness in the shapes of songs.

Behind the doors of hidden trouble

macho bullshit seems to double

partnerships in ruined rubble

tell us this is not a bubble.

Where to go and what to do

when bruises blossom black and blue

where Tate and others celebrate

the rising tide of gender hate.

To find an answer to this question

hear the words we’re scared to mention

to find a way to change the story

releasing love in all its glory

It starts with dads becoming calmer

learning how to deal with trauma,

it starts with mums demanding other

than what was given to their mothers.

To break the cycle, create change

acknowledging each others pain

and shining lights upon the fears

that dwell within the manosphere.

Until this changes nothing changes

nothing changes till it does,

come on Jack lets rearrange

the patterned shape of human love.

Come on Jack.