Man, what art thou

But a package
Of transitory eruptions?
Man of movie-made-masculinity,
You are the strut 
Upon the stage
Prying open
The mysteries of women . . . So you think . . .
You discover
There
The same poison 
Mixed of dominance and semen.
So too, the
Cradle of Life
Harbors death.
The joke is on us . . .
Angels mangled within this flesh.