An evening stroll in Alexandra Park,
where I once shook hands with B.B. King
& saw Muddy Waters dance the can-can
(fond memories of a place I’ll soon be
trying to forget).
Crossing the car-park, I walk into
a small funfair, stalls packing up now,
though the shooting gallery’s still open.
Curious, I wander over, then halt abruptly
as I realise the targets are glossy centrefolds
of naked women, their breasts & genitals
(& eyes & mouths) shot away by pellets
that’ve been fired into them
over & over & over again.
Taken aback, I can’t quite believe
what I’m seeing. Is it possible?
Do guys stand here shooting at photos
of female genitalia in broad daylight,
their girlfriends perhaps standing beside them,
looking bored or exchanging uneasy
glances, knowing a more deadly act
of misogynistic hatred could be lurking
in ambush, anywhere, any time,
even a corner of the local park
on a sunny bank holiday evening.
I hear a shout &, with a start,
glance around, suddenly aware
my staring could be taken
for complicity.
I hurry away, head down, mind
still reeling. Is this really what men
want to do? What men fantasise about?
And since I’m a man, does this
mean I am complicit,
willingly or not?
As I flee what feels like a crime scene,
anxious to absent & absolve myself,
I pray such “masculinity” does not lie
dormant within me, a twisted seed
in my flesh, in my blood,
awaiting its moment to flower.
But as I reach my flat & shut the door
tightly behind me, I realise flight is
not an option. I can’t escape
the horror I’ve seen in the park
&, like a shadow in the mirror,
closer to home than
I’d ever imagined.
.
© Graham Lock
Picture Kushal Poddar
.