They come across him while he's resting on an unfrequented beach:
half boy, half man, as fragile as weightless wings awaiting arrows -
his frame still slight, his eyes still fresh, skin as soft as a just-plucked peach.

Their muscles, their machines, make a mob/a pack/a mindless shadow:
the scent of prey unmasking raptors who seek blood, not laurel crowns.

They sniff and circle, then close in: predators with common purpose,
let slip from quibbling, quisling leashes that keep us seeming human.
Now they know their proof of manhood is to use him as a woman -
a woman who is held and spread and pierced and spread and pierced again -
such victims have no voice, no say: their pleas and cries are never heard.

They rev off, discharging smoke and fumes - bollocks well discharged -
rejoicing in the joining-in: the blood, the force, the kill, the win.
Their ziggurat of manliness grows by a further, tighter twist,
turned by the strength of weaklings: losers, lepers, failures, pariahs.

The broken doll is left in glory of a god half man, half beast;
the drying smears of blood and semen roughly wreathe his reamed out anus.

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