The War Horse

What is it like to be sitting in your room alone and trying to just figure out who you are and which script are we reading from now? The war horse once clawed hoves in the air dripping blood and ale as this anarchy fountain lifts its paws to the sky and blots out the sun, just for a moment. This feat and beast was then drowned slowly and is now a prancing pony in the travel circus that I may have been a part of in 1963 for a short time and that is the cat alongside a bag of wagon wheels or paint chips, tire irons, rusty talons, nails and tacks and so on.

The carpet now stands with her feet on the ceiling, speak bluntly kind sir and mind your manners. I sit now, calmly and write to you from a hole of a rabbit. The alligator shine’s his teeth on a razorblade while choosing his next victim- mass graves are the fashion of the time period. I hate a mockery of humanity that dresses us up fancy and leaves you feeling unveiled in the sun and slightly burning. Can you take me to the promised land?

Were there stunt doubles waiting in the wings for all our players and fortune soothsayers today and in the toady days to come: I can hear them from my open window tonight as they brave the trees in the dark earthen mounds of the backyard (a creature of a small variety but stout I assure you). The night can be a cruel asylum when I feel as if I’ve worked all within it’s slumber hours, and yet, don’t remembering the doing. Try to not speak out of turn or fifty hangings you must attend, wide eyes on a faceless and laughing crowd-the executioner wagers with the devil (or so I’ve heard) and gets his kicks from watching the dead man swing.

I hear the ringing of the watchtower bells even as I sit here, trying to get a silent peace in my head for once. I think madness is for the taking. I think bondage is time to be broken like the too many sets of dishes we have in our house just waiting to fly and split open with orgasm.

We, still the chained and downtrodden, must open our ears again to the beating of the earth-follow your brave snout, as it was and went on, wassailing till the end of the day. I see your sorrows painted on my walls like epigraphs and indeed tombstones hung from the catwalks on my ceiling. We fall like the tears on your face, again and again, and yet find the creative worth living for.

This interview is over for now, we continue on our journey through the slits in the blinds and the cracks in the hallway tile. I was a boy once afraid of lightening and then grew up, my head and hat through the rafters and was never heard from again. Until tomorrow then, the doctor calls for his nurse and uncovers his wounds; he falls to the floor dying from cultural stigmata, but the clock on his desk still wears a grin.