Rx NOTES FROM MARS IN CANCER (Still Out Of Bounds)

Is everything I stand for as a man either dying out
or being rejected? Is it truly so?
Am I losing my entire sense of masculinity?
I feel my rough, raw edges dulling,
my once-fiercely-held anger collapsing inward
under the relentless march of progressivism,
militant feminism,
post-modern queer trans-activism,
or whatever façade is parading through society these days.

Who am I but a shattered shell?
Clawing tightly at my ancestral baggage,
swamped in a murky cesspit of atavistic shame—
colliding furiously with Chiron in Aries,
ripping open every hidden scab on my right to exist,
to stake my claim,
to stand up and be counted,
to fuck how I damned-well please,
without fear or blame,
before I become reduced to some obsolete domesticated caricature of myself.

And against Mercury and the Sun in Aquarius
throwing their cool, detached, derisive beams my way,
I’m left to shout obscenities at a sterile landscape
that couldn’t care less about the fever in my blood.
No wonder sometimes i just want to spit
on the polite illusions of their “spiritual evolution” (Ha!):
Where is the space for the raw, primordial lust for competition—
for contest, conquest, battle, all-out war?
For enjoying sex the way my body demands,
for satiating the primal urges that once gave my identity and purpose its definition?

Perhaps Saturn in Pisces offers a modicum of structure—
some new, perhaps perverse approach
that might yet tether my roiling innards
and stave off my burning loins before they erupt.
But there’s no denying the taste of bitterness,
and there’s no delaying the frustration,
as I struggle to bridge the old masculine code
with a world that sneers at my basic instincts,
rebranding them as archaic relics of a savage, bygone age.

Is it truly my masculinity that’s dying,
or am I simply being forced to watch it mutate
into something unrecognisable—
a diluted version of its former self,
consumed by the inertia of joblessness, video games & porn,
polished for public reconsumption
yet barren of its fundamental coil and heartbeat?

In this hollow, bereft moment,
it feels as though I’m at war with an invisible adversary,
and the fight is turning inward,
fracturing my sense of self.

Dark as it sounds, I’d rather rage than kneel;
I’d rather claw at the crumbling foundations
of my biological identity
than sit back while it’s ruthlessly ripped and gutted
in the name of a machinated, cold, bloodless tomorrow.

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