Listen to reading by RC Miller

They retained shape of the horse, in thousands where it had been, where it had been one retaining its own shape with effort eaten free of eyes, four-legged a beast bent-backed ear-flapping at the things that now kept it together, with no architectural convulsions in the now dead pasture for the horse to be made, but its shadow thin as gruel, and them Ethiopian farm labourers horse fevered on pesticides like snails in the confusions that’d rotted out the minds of opaque western thinkers, their whittled madness a translation of some queerly haunted girl in the crooked process of straightening, but no here now and good job for shit-cake imitators of unreason of derangement of horse, its stickfly legs making at running from the bone made of fly, dropping hoof blood in tracks horsing satiric in cobwebbed animal heaven of half-dead spider coitus, with old necessities all horse idle illusions of broken horse decay, its nostrils flyblown tunnels to loose scrotal brains of zimbs neighing lipless riders thrown together in maggots, colour unknown, flank sweat of good horse images the fly made of still wing, we happy in horse, we dead in fly, we deadhorsehappy in the horseflyhorse, the needle mouths of our new horse drawing blood from the old being of itself unflyfleshed braying at bites and poisoned African plasma