• Tuur Verheyde

To Men

Something tells you

There’s an issue, something

Tells you are not the man

You are supposed to be.

When FOMO makes your solitude

Feel shameful. You ask: ‘Why me and not

The other guy?’ Who can tell,

Apart from that little something,

That little patriarch, which never fails

To find a nail

To pound with pressure

And keep pounding until

The embittered rage

Runs down embarrassed cheeks—

Boys don’t cry?


It is easy to look for

An Other to blame.

To do the pressure’s

Bidding by

Blaming women,

Blaming SJWs,

Blaming cucks,

Blaming the shadowy cabal,

Giving insipid meaning

To your loneliness by filling it

With misogyny, bile, or fascist

Masculinity worship—

Be a stud and be a chad,

But male authority is daddy

And you should lick its boot

With gratitude,

And if the need comes

For cannon fodder,

Go and throw yourself

In the meat grinder

For some rich man’s

Bottom line—

But ask yourself,

Why do the easy thing?

Why take the coward’s

Way out and keep blindly

Following this pressure

Into further forays

Of inhumane cruelty?


If noble masculinity

Is brave, why not

Be brave in the face

Of this pressure, which

Tells you to take your

Feelings of emasculation

And turn them into hatred

For everyone and everything

That doesn’t submit

To its decrepit expectations?


Why not be brave

And choose not to be

The puppet, the bully

The cannon fodder,

The grunt, the drone?

Why not look that

Pressure in its face

And finally figure out

What it is and what

It wants?


What you will find out

Is that your unease is

Not the work of feminism

Or some shadowy conspiracy.

It is the centuries-old refuse

Of an imperialist patriarchy,

Now brought to you by

Capital, which has it set

Its bloody claws deep

Into your culture.


That little patriarch and

Its pressure are society’s way

Of strong-arming men

Into the following

The dreaded rule of everyone,

The rule of normal,

The sacrament of conformist

Performativity and canonical

Experience: The doctrine of

Toxic Masculinity,

Societal docility

And compulsory virility

Sold together as

Dignified manhood;

A recipe for misery.


That pressure is society’s pet

Panopticon performed like

Self-awareness, sold to you

Through every screen screeching

Mutilation until you fit

That pre-packaged mould

Bleeding bitterness

Or resignation.


That pressure tells you to listen

To your libido more than

To your conscience.

And demands you value

The idea of sex more

Than the actual thing,

The love or even just

The pleasure.


That pressure has a side gig as

That inner cop who urgently

Needs a killing to the face.

That pressure wants

To turn you into its enforcer,

To take the difficulties

Of life and make them worse

For yourself and everyone else.


That pressure would have you

Patrol the streets for women,

To catcall, to harass or worse.

It would have you looking for

Gay or trans people to bully

And beat up. It would have you join

The worst of the world’s violent

Fanatics, whose whole lives

Have been reduced to making

Society worse and unsafe

Simply so they can feel in

Control of their insecurities.

Remember: the alfa male

Does not exist in the freedom

Of the wild. He is simply

The most brutal outcome

Of life imprisoned.


That patriarchal pressure

Is how men become incels,

‘nice guys,’ pickup artists,

Or self-pitying virgins

Engulfed by resentment

And misogyny.

It takes virginity and

Celibacy, things experienced

My billions of men

Without shame for centuries

And warps them into mortal sins.

The virgin,

The celibate,

The introvert,

The dandy,

The cuck,

None will ever be as pathetic

As he who devotes his life to

The false idol of virility

And performs his worship

With violence, vileness

And impotent revenge.


That same pressure

Is the phantom

Of male inadequacy,

Of emasculation,

That dreaded spectre,

The unforgiving gaze

Of mandatory manliness.

It haunts your personhood

And will never let you be

Yourself, nor let you

Even find out

Who that is.


That pressure wants

To make you lesser,

Wants to reduce you

To a sad set of prescribed

Personality treats.

That pressure wants

To make you see

A kaleidoscopic world

As paltry shades

Of deathly grey.


That pressure invades

Every man who wants

To make his peace

With masculinity

By looking for answers

In the rotting vestiges

Of patriarchal mythmaking.

That pressure wasn’t made

To make you happy,

To give you freedom, meaning,

Nobility or success.

That pressure was manufactured

To put its male subjects

Into a manageable box

Where dominating womanhood

Would keep the serfs aplenty,

And the men incurious

About what was dominating

Them. Just let it go.

Just be a man, whatever

That means to you, if

That is truly what

You want.