deepundergroundpoetry.com
Shooting Horses
After the crematorium,
We drop the urn on bar floor:
It becomes a nest of
Sawdust, vomit, whiskey
And our friend Johnny.
There’s that joke.
You know the one?
A horse walks into a bar
And the barmaid asks him
“Why the long face?”
Well, a nomadic steed
Fresh, indeed, from mo(u)rning fields
Gallops from dawn to twilight
Town to town, hooved shoes
Clicking a Latino rhythm.
In the litany of celebrity equidae
- Trojan Gulliver Champion
Mister Ed Silver 1 of the Apocalypse 4
Pegasus bestial porn star -
His nostrils have never flared fame, nor
Framed [ inert ] in pastoral pastels.
Stabled in lost continent where
Rain-bearing clouds birth
Tomorrow children, cradled
In cervical spine of mountain side.
The horses forge a hoofed fleet -
Weary of cultivating millennial seeds
That grew here and gave being
From amniotic porridge
To creatures of phallus and womb.
In gothic grotesque
A metallic rain storm
Bridles against humankind,
Rusts communication cables
Drowns each bomb crater.
The eternal struggle takes flight
Armies tread softly in trenched columns,
Awaiting, finally, to clash at night.
They are coming
They are coming
They are coming……
Anyway, our horse
Walks into a bar
And the barmaid asks him
“Why is their friend Johnny on your back.”
Pic. Album cover.
We drop the urn on bar floor:
It becomes a nest of
Sawdust, vomit, whiskey
And our friend Johnny.
There’s that joke.
You know the one?
A horse walks into a bar
And the barmaid asks him
“Why the long face?”
Well, a nomadic steed
Fresh, indeed, from mo(u)rning fields
Gallops from dawn to twilight
Town to town, hooved shoes
Clicking a Latino rhythm.
In the litany of celebrity equidae
- Trojan Gulliver Champion
Mister Ed Silver 1 of the Apocalypse 4
Pegasus bestial porn star -
His nostrils have never flared fame, nor
Framed [ inert ] in pastoral pastels.
Stabled in lost continent where
Rain-bearing clouds birth
Tomorrow children, cradled
In cervical spine of mountain side.
The horses forge a hoofed fleet -
Weary of cultivating millennial seeds
That grew here and gave being
From amniotic porridge
To creatures of phallus and womb.
In gothic grotesque
A metallic rain storm
Bridles against humankind,
Rusts communication cables
Drowns each bomb crater.
The eternal struggle takes flight
Armies tread softly in trenched columns,
Awaiting, finally, to clash at night.
They are coming
They are coming
They are coming……
Anyway, our horse
Walks into a bar
And the barmaid asks him
“Why is their friend Johnny on your back.”
Pic. Album cover.
Published 2nd Jul 2020
Author's Note
#ERULGCT 59. Umanoid xx Wednesday ramble. ALL STAY SAFE
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The author encourages honest critique.
2nd Jul 2020 10:26pm
3rd Jul 2020 4:35pm
The title immediately made me think of an opening scene in the movie Fury, where they are discussing having to shoot riderless horses all day long, after a terrible battle. No one to care for them, the situation demanded it, as a lesser evil, in the midst of a monstrous evil.
I've been over it a few times now. I wonder if it's about the clash of the natural world with the rise of the industrial one. The whole of nature seems to come to perversion and the opening and close of the joke seems to have a bittersweet ironic twist about it, that perhaps all that could or once had meaning has been rendered into a bit of pith, an obtuse summation of all that is lost, and meaning lost. It's a fascinating write to ponder Rob.
I've been over it a few times now. I wonder if it's about the clash of the natural world with the rise of the industrial one. The whole of nature seems to come to perversion and the opening and close of the joke seems to have a bittersweet ironic twist about it, that perhaps all that could or once had meaning has been rendered into a bit of pith, an obtuse summation of all that is lost, and meaning lost. It's a fascinating write to ponder Rob.
