Ideology of the horse

The horse moved quietly among us in the street
The giant head of this horse did not nicker or whinny
There were no thoughts behind its dark eyes when I looked into them
We talked about such horses being noble creatures but what is a virtuous horse?
It was bred to be a working animal and therefore we imagined it was like us
The horse moved away and climbed a hill on which there was a plinth
When it arrived there it adopted a fighting pose
Both forelegs clawed at the grey sky
The halo of the sun shone behind the horse’s head
Immediately, the self-sacrificing horse jumped high into the light
It seemed to reach a very great height
Then, I admit I felt for a moment both sickness and fear
(I did not want to look
But look we all did, just in a glance)
The horse’s thick neck broke awkwardly underneath its fallen body
What was the ideology of the horse?
What was it thinking?!
It was tough then to look into its dead eyes

I remember it was a rainy night

I remember it was a rainy night, and cold
For our reunion my father took me to his favorite restaurant
His Chrysler Valiant was painted pearlescent white
He drove much too fast of course on slippery roads, and parked in a dark street
When we arrived it was already very late
In this part of town theatre people, and prostitutes, were everywhere
A tall man with an ornate beard stood in the restaurant window’s light
My father was known here so, when we entered, we were seated immediately
One elderly couple had brought their little tan-and-white dog to dine with them
It was creating a puddle on the floor underneath their table
A large party had formed near us, several tables crashed together
There was laughter and shouting for more wine and bread
For a while the restaurant was a chaos of yellow light, food and noise
Tables rearranged themselves like Dodgem cars
And my father’s table crashed the party forming in the centre of the room
There were some people we knew—Susan, for example
She was relating the story of her assault on the base camp of Everest
And there was Thomas, the tiny but famous author with white stubble
I tried to listen to everyone, and even to Susan whose story I had heard before
Thomas tried to speak to me to tell me about something he thought important
I watched his mouth as it spoke to me
Then, unfortunately, Susan saw that I was no longer listening to her
She leaned forward, stared me down, tugging at her ear
Oh, Susan, I said
No one wants to hear what unrecyclables you left at the feet of the gods
So, she was hurt of course but I did not see any way of avoiding it
And Thomas and the secret he was whispering to me were gone
People had already started to leave before the lights went up
It was the time of morning bakers go to work
My father took his coat and headed out before me
He did not wait for me and crossed the road
His silhouette marched into a narrow laneway and then it turned a corner
That was where I also turned to follow after him
I found only wide, dark pools of water there
The steep road, winding along the edge of a city park, was empty
The early morning smelled shiny-wet, and he was nowhere to be seen
I walked in circles and walked in circles and then came back to where I’d been
I fell in a gutter and my skirt and shoes were soaked
The man with the elaborate beard was still standing there
Even after several hours he was still waiting though I didn’t know for what
And inside, I could see through the window the dining room being dismantled
Renovations that could not be started during service had begun
And workers were already atop of their ladders getting ready to paint
The old patron said, it’s cold outside come in
Thank you, if you don’t mind, I will use your restroom, I said to him
And slipping in, behind me, the strangely bearded man followed me
Me too, he said, pretending we were together
Behind a door from the dining room the bakers were on the morning shift
A beautiful young girl with the tray of sweets swept past me, smiling
Try, she said, and tilted the display toward me
I could smell the powdery confection under my nose
Warm, nutty and sweet, and ready to eat
And behind me the smell of my new, wet friend
His arm stretched over my shoulder to grab a treat
His beard, thin as a tattoo, sculpted into spirals, scratched my cheek
I could have fucked him then and there
It was what we wanted, but we threw ourselves into a soft sofa
In the family rooms there were other diners who also had returned, defeated
My wet friend wrapped his legs around me
I looked closely into his eyes, asking for reassurance but finding none
I kept one hand on his shaven neck and with the other painted his lips with sugar

Auguration

I woke this morning from a dream in which the future
had been laid out before me like mathematics. All the assertions
of economists and other soothsayers about the sickening movements
of markets could be denied; and everything will be denied
everything—except that two plus two equals four.

The animal used in this auguration was the self-acting mule, a machine
that has arms and pincers, and can be made to perform
routine tasks tirelessly, without complaint except that it might
give a kick now and then. This animal, this algorithm without feeling
has been shitting in our society for years—and now we have found a use for it.

The dream did not turn out at all how I expected it to turn out.
That is how you know dreams have turned into nightmares.
We are all going to find ourselves crouching in a dark space
not together—that is, not acting in unison, as a group—but separately
and individually responsible in the fight that is coming.

The rulers, however—the presidents, governors and the rest—
who have always united for the purpose of our repression and
do not like to share any ground with other people
will be onboard their yachts and planes at the crucial moment
when promises are made and broken in the same breath, and things fall apart.

It is just then that the failure of truth will be its own punishment
and facts will stand out in stark relief, like someone screaming
on a cold night. It will be fight or die. A survivor will be left standing
covered in blood and it will not seem proper to talk about right or wrong
because some questions have always been answered this way.

 

Note: This poem represents ideas in ‘Chapter Two: The Metaphysics of Political Economy, Part 5’ of Karl Marx’s «The Poverty of Philosophy».
Published in Otoliths, 1 February 2017.

Robert Mapplethorpe (1946-1989), American Flag, 1977. Gelatin silver print, 19 3/4 × 15 15/16 in. (50.2 × 40.5 cm). Whitney Museum of American Art, New York.
Robert Mapplethorpe (1946-1989), American Flag, 1977. Gelatin silver print, 19 3/4 × 15 15/16 in. (50.2 × 40.5 cm). Whitney Museum of American Art, New York.

Inhabitants of Celebration Park

There have been reports of a ‘mountain lion’. The danger
that came down from a reserve and waited crouching
in grey grass at the side of the road had eyes
emitting rays to hypnotise hunters and children.
The announcements paralysed us. We did not think
that in our despair we gave everything we owned
to the rich and scientists who perfected lying
for theorems whose only purpose was deceit. The voters
got up to no good at night in parks set aside
for the betterment of us all, dressed up as crazy beasts
as celebrities, symbolists and as fortune-tellers
and let the animals loose. In Celebration Park
there are no super-heroes, and not even any heroes
in this dire plot: we are the wildlife, it is our nature
stripped and bare-ass naked. There is a map for everywhere
except the private places of a few who can afford silence.

 

Celebration Park, Kansas USA—Gardner Police Station photograph of mountain lion.
Celebration Park, Kansas USA—Gardner Police Station photograph of mountain lion.