On a windy plain

By mattfattcatt

The title doesn't feel quite right, but it doesn't really matter. Wrote this a little while ago. Enjoy!

On a windy plain, a flute was played.
And played, and played, throughout the day.
It played a song, specifically, in trips of four to swim the three:

“The rapier shapes of dying horses
Rubs against me lithe and quick
I sing a song for dying horses
Who move too fast for sun to lick.”

And as it played, it slow wore down
‘Til it was but a wooden crown.
Beneath this nubby treebark wreath
There grew a child of heart and heath.
He wore this crown upon his head
To know the song of horses dead
So that when windy plains did sing
He sang along and danced a gleam.

The boy was lonely, no one came
To keep his woe and hide the pain
That rose like whining sour grit
Of sour wine and simpered soot
Wat sat upon his simple soul
And sinned against his bones to fold.

For this poor child had one small plea
To find the dam who broke his knees
And left him there to creeping cry
And crime the sounds when horses die.

His mum had left him there you see
When he was ‘twixt the age of three
And four to laugh through briny surf
Turfed out amidst an angel’s hearse.

She’d ‘come too tired to whet her girth
Again against raw feted earth
In winding plains where grasses birth
To flesh anew her bodies curse.

So with an earthy fetid breath
She whispered in his aerie nest
A giggled dirk of broken truth
To hush his sighs of sharpening tooth:

“When I was your age I was mean
With droves of curdled dreams to keen
That raged my fists to strike the bitch
That spewed me from her wretched spleen.

For I was born on this still plain
On this still spot from which you came
And mottled mud of first life’s blood
Still stains the stones grained west from rain.

I had learned lessons early on
Of chessing dirts that strike the pawn,
For mother’s teat would strip my feet
Of life’s crazed yearn for magic strong.

Now I know from many years
Torn ‘part so quick with brimstone tears,
That love’s a lie, as lies are loved,
No arcane cogs befit time’s gears.

I must here now goodbye to you
To scythe the itch her milk did brew
Upon my gut’s thin pygmied huts;
Here wise some words to dark your hue:

‘This riptide rush of growing brush
That souls your faerie fire’s lush
Will clench your sweat in throes of wet
Hot embered fools who brawn sweet gush.’

There is no tale as sad to tell
As children bled by blind veil’s hell.
So though I… love you, turtledove, you
Are now dead to my heart’s knell.”

With that she laid him on her lap
To draw his legs in iron clacks
That laced his knees in shards of glut
To match her needled words of smut.

“These are to keep you safe my boy
From spirit’s craves and gangrene joy,
For both deceive your brain to leave
Your mind’s thick grubs an endless ploy.”

As these last words escaped her lips
She growing swayed her fattened hips
And jigged a craze to blink her frame
Into a void, to end the game.

The air was flared with dark wine sun,
In whimpered coos the grass did hum,
The only thing which she had left:
A treebark flute of horses’ death


And so the boy began to dance,
More like a writhe of sallow silk,
As blood seeped through his woolen pants
He sang to seek his only ilk:

“The rapier shapes of dying horses
Rubs against me lithe and quick
I sing a song for dying horses
Who move too fast for sun to lick.”

On a windy plain, a flute was played.
And played, and played, throughout the day.
It played a song, specifically, in trips of four to swim the three.

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On a windy plain

Created: Jan 19, 2010

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