pulled him by the strap so he tumbled in
beside us,
head volleyed over hoofs in a dead dark
crevice
yeah, mud scatters in the path
of the man up top,
they’re saying in the back
he’s got the sack and given up,
and now we’re stuffed.
now he’s like a symbol for the dread and the
panic,
sun spinning like a bowl on a spear
in a sky like granite,
no sir, haloing his head as in a
black felt cloak, it makes me want to
laugh like it makes me want to choke.
them Cossack steeds, baptised in gunfire,
man they look good,
tearing through the dark of half past two,
their ribs showing.
cornered like a fox where his lines got
severed,
hands motion at the air so the
flies don’t get him,
look, guts out on exhibition in the
water and the blood mix,
guarded, scribbling the vitals for his
mother in a book.
I don’t know what I’d write my
mother,
I’d creak and bleed, coated in
leather.
them Cossack steeds, baptised in gunfire,
man they look good,
tearing through the dark of half past two,
their ribs showing.
my Cossack breed, half-blind and
gun-shy, man he looks good,
sleeping on his feet like horses do,
his ribs showing.
pulled him by the strap so he tumbled in
beside us,
head volleyed over hoofs in a dead dark
crevice,
yeah, mud!
