A runner

by Sebastian Thomas


The Boy ran shirtless and aggressive


A rush of mid-waist purple and empty forward drive


Before contrasting brights wasted endless devotion


Empty coming after passion

And passion that I knew not, yet could recognize

And not break


Thick with envy and competition and guilt

Guilt producing a bowing of the head and a dark heart

A green diaphragm that sits ready and aging

That rots out the last breakaway

And is now controlled completely by men, no boys, where many are wasted and tied down until the finale


And now emblematic outcries in the all too rested feet drop off in the dump of fermenting dystrophy

Content themselves with pungent haze of apprenticed repetition waves

Surface level dystrophy that would boil with a film of black tar America

And demotic incoherent blab that terrifies itself into its translucent foreskin

A foreskin that for over a thousand suns gets peeled back and plucked of individuality within

Treasure that was honed by respect then bi-polared into spite


And for a quadrilateral of three and four age

A rhythm of wedging and filling in crevice on crevice with awkward cement of jabs and refining taste

Cement that hardened with comforts of phallus and proclamations masculinity that distorted then welcomed

And each grew to know that each pair was split and fraying at the edges

A chipped amethyst wrapped in chill sea that prepared comforts of there’s “always tomorrow”


Here obligations festered in the back of the red spotted head burn that announced animosity towards the throne

Yet wallow on fours when emperor child diddler dropped dangerous fees on company

And maternal mentors played the line up, “turn in your dicks boys” theatrics

It could be false promise that he did not run a spear through the walls

Neither did he hole the wall with canon balls, a forbidden pleasure

And so was a blessing where the rest of us fell short

Wild with erections of loud noise and orgasm


Knowing the sexual resentment of cordiality even sunrise of finals gained success

Humble boastings from persons to persons deemed the cello a sexual tyrannosaur causing breaks and dilated eyes

A room of orange and brown linked with similar trinkets defined as chamber randy refrain

And I never went back over there to paint figurines

I never went back over


Seething jealousy boiling in the pot of recognition bolted itself to the back of the skull

Yes fifty people came


This compressed to acceptance and proud rebirth

Here is a man that in the hands of “God” could be presented blameless

Simply fed the wrong gruel by some jean jacket who held the boy to a higher standard

The pedestal

The ignorance


With toned arms and slide tackles that aimed towards joyous ankles greeting the fall with countering aggression

And that aggression that leaps up grabbing a stalk to splinter the shins and give guilt to the other

Not this guilt but a harmless self-indulgent shame in which one batters the other too much and stops risked silly games and demands satisfaction only to receive a counter and proceeds in limbo and ritual


Younger applicants were an excrete of that young healthy deuce that confidently announces the three year existence with shy malleability

Growing a scale of retort and wit while a murder of crows sits him down to dinner with monocles and begins chastising his figure over tension tamer tea

Like a regal boxer that cannot tuck tail between legs with testicles frosted by public remarks of capability

It must be received on hallowed practice

Because of tradition


It came to pass of my quiet intermingling and absorption

The dog with revealed ribs lying on its left side stirs and rises

Joining lions that snap jaw at ankles of another

Picking up pace with each other into head rocks and arm locks


The Baptist and I bound alliance together in Agri park chanting

“This is what it will be like at state”

Remembering’s of the protagonist passion of exhaustion loom in records

Myself crossing shadows of passer-byes in a fresh carved wake of hurt and collapse

Exhausting back, contemplating if failure or death is more valuable

Up the hill swaying in stride look left look right look left look right


I send negative energy out of the grey stare

The conveyor belt of strain works against man

The drive will dismiss the selfish gain though

The boy will succeed and I will trail afroed sufferers making “hegh” noises

Pioneering what I do without jealousy in his manor


That learning the nature of the fellow artist proves discontent avoidance

A nature that condemns a Christ like figure to be castrated and given barriers

And spine shivers grey finned fish at text and hunch

And false jubilations prove obvious

Causing each stone to be freshly mortared as waves of farewell prove to only be temporary


Losing sacred temple bodies that churn to ride pole and to be mounted

Forgetting holy lives, turning in the net of restrain and moistening

Instant regret wanes each lay as comfort in supposed blasphemy waxes

Still unable to satisfy each other deciding it as a case-by-case formal business

But the beauty of shared tipping points isn’t understood yet

And is lost information


They will turn up to the sun and deny it

Women and men both will proclaim a mask of non-acknowledgment

That they huddled under the shadow of the old Willow tree full of blind nothing

Bearing teeth and shaking their wolf-heads frantically in instant approval without understanding, ready to bite off the head of the messenger boy who came to give them the good news

Building up their personal fortress

Or tearing it down diffusing their guilt towards others

And would that it still was, the boy would have assisted their happiness

But they trumpet a filled perception of

The end is the end

And giving that to him in return, pick him out of their mephitic chops


The final year watches four deserve rest

The first a weasel, a young buck,

The next a wise whatever

The third a disturbed individual that will later lose his family

The fourth afroed winged savior grasping onto, “it hurts it hurts!”


And they crossed the wire line faultless

OH! A perfect accomplishment of human dedication

Calves searing red hot without evidence of the body except the posture and hunched limp

Nothing can spoil a moment like this laurel victory

Where one wins and the others disappear and

The rest is fiction

For up to anyone else would be full of lies and professed by neighbors

And it came and it went


In the time of leisure danced relays of fornication hearsay and distinct hot boxings

Where uncomfortable peers grow to absent minded philanders making cracks about nothing and repeating the same thing with more emphasis the second and third time grabbing ahold of the other person plagued with laughter
Where “wise whatever” grew and reclused


Becoming more obscure with style clothes and shameless showy displays of affection

Where the man loses to age

And loses the self to kinless kinship


The Captain spoke of hard times

Yet the retention of strength is evident in the following year

While the rest pissed away the gift of commitment in an instant apathy


The misplaced brilliance felt out of place amidst the mass of cast faces that sought primitive companions that met the basic needs of security

Seeking out someone who was willing wasn’t difficult but didn’t always bear fruit

It came with a burdening tax of attachment


The time of times spent together are cherished but hazed now by extensive miles and more extensive existence

And the extraterrestrial life that is smoked by youth for a forever harvest season

A brisk flash-forward to misted Juneway picking up the Devil and his Cabbage



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Categories: Poetry