Myriad Ilk

PHOTO BY SI

This one was no pretty boy.
An angry boy, he was.

His fists were always ready for the thrill of a fight,
Kicking, punching, pulling, wrestling,
knocking the senses out of the ones who dared to enter the bogeyman's ring.

From whence he retrieved this bullish power, nobody thought to guess.

To them, he was a girrrrrrrl gone wild,
made wilder by the abominable protrusions that forced his invalidation.

So, for a time, he retreated into a festering muteness
so the child might avoid the turbulence of incongruity.

But now, alas, now, his blood boils again,
and thus begins the modifications that necessitate the giving back of a life.

Such revisions in form and function are entirely imperceptible to the naked eye of public scrutiny, for civilization's exclusive categorizations of birds and breeds
expose the asininity of its sacrilege against our extraordinary human natures.

We are, in fact, swarming multitudes of particularities,
some in perpetual motion as they meander through permeable surfaces,
breaking normative barriers, and generally stirring the shit out of
murderously enforced "respectable" socieities.

This boy is not a crime.

But the ones incarcerated in minds grossly puny and pernicious
blindly and ruthlessly seek the boy's deletion.

The boy perseveres, and seeks recovery, exploring the myriad ilk of tempestuous masculinities,

no longer slack in this discordant shell.