Mr Macho Man

I’m a huge fan of lipograms when it comes to constrained writing, omitting the use of one or more letters to explore the limits and flexibility of language. Within this piece, the representation of suffocation and torment is rife, alongside the feeling of fear, longing and hurt the speaker evokes. The poem emerged from a prolonged period of internal struggles, eventually resulting in a cathartic release.

Mr Macho Man

You can’t hear me crying,

mutiny on you.

I’m mute, 

a chance to ignore me,

you’re imagining I’m gone.

You’re outcharming me, outreaching me,

yet I aim to outmarch you.

I can’t encourage you, no retouching me,

you’re rematching me.

Together it’s good,

not great,

I cry.

I can’t go,

the man a nightmare,

humouring me in a game.

Mr Macho Man,

granting me mercy,

acting as my anchor.

I’m on a gurney,

eating your honey that hurt me.

You moan,

you’re horny,

my hunger is gone.

I chime,

‘You’re inhumane Mr Hitman,

I’m an inmate in your hand. 

You cream at your crime,

Your humour too young,

I’m in agony.

I remain in a trance,

your game hanging me in a cage,

your itch and ache,

each cheat and eat and harm me.’.

No chance at trying to augment the magic,

your image torn.

The magnetic energy, 

in the hand of a coin,

to cure our grey anthem.

A choir, 

you and I, 

not harmonic nor ethic.

You imagine you’re the mango,

you’re a man concerning mercy,

the guitar erect on the throne,

mute and unrotic. 

You utter:

‘too mouthy’.

‘too touchy’

‘too caring’

‘too gothic’

‘too humane’

‘too cringe’

‘too ethnic’

‘too tragic’

‘too mature’

‘too human’.

I’m authoring the moth,

the cheating roach,

the unromantic creation of the antihero. 

I ruminate on the echoing,

the minger in a trench,

the man curating my cry.

A change is coming,

I caught you in a lie.

A current agency to go.

A mighty, rhyming ache.

One day I can go home,

not to you, 

I am to return to me.