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| "A joke is the epigram on the death of a feeling" |
My Little (Turin) Pony
be it lessons of friendship or markets of lunacy, Princess Celestia or the lion
wearing a snake like Laocoön, prowling the mountains
to brush against the rabble of disciples, judging each and every poncho,
each and every sheepskin overcoat or that fabled under-achieving Ubermensch,
be it unctuous maxim or sequined foal – scrying fortunes in the water,
be it dead, saddled, or shop-bought and sown on to a kimono,
these hooves are beating me down, screaming
life’s too short
on answers
but
longing like the punchline for
a better joke
– say, that each “cutie mark”
that dots the hock or flowers on the gaskin
is nothing more than hundreds
and thousands, distracting from the hollow legs,
interchangeable and
necessarily misunderstood.
My
Little
(Turin) Pony calls me human,
all-too-human;
the artist’s sense of truth
shits with the door open,
to be regal, appalling; my
utopia, he said, the ennoblement of degradation,
imagine something about the
official merchandise pillowcase; she has a rainbow mane
and a nosebag of locusts… i collapse dreaming of sleep and the
way i look
beaten by the responsible commitments of getting by in stable, for example, circumstances,
crying of grazed knees in an apple
store –
praying for a receipt and keeping a receipt for prayers
spent
whinnying for proof on glittered moors.
