Running Until We Run Out

by Scott Cumming

We float through the desert

On our way to becoming

Another set of American clichés

Did those before us

Find what they wanted here

Or did they simply run out

Of land on which to flee?

Snow tyres don’t drive so well

On sand-dusted roads

Don’t lick red snow

Be wary of ice holes

The guilt swells

Like his eyes

Tyre ironed out

No longer a pretty sight

The dozen of them

With wagons rounded

Force us to kiss

Batter us for our sins

Opportunity presents

Gifts for avenging “fairies”

A hunting party man lost

Cut down staring at those

He finds gross

This truck was once a symbol

Of all our tenderness and truth

But that’s rusting away

In pools of oily blood

The only clouds out here

Made of our vapour

The reassurances we utter

Nothing more than hot air

We drift into another Red State

Is it illusory to think

Things will be better here?

Can you really run from hate?

Scott Cumming never considered himself to be a writer until recently but turns out he has some stuff to say. He has been published at The Daily Drunk, Punk Noir Magazine, Bristol Noir, Fevers of the Mind, Versification, Close to the Bone, and Shotgun Honey. Catch up with all his misdemeanours on Twitter @tummidge