I cried in front of thirty odd class mates

on the day that they sent Boxer down

and I took, begrudgingly, the teenage

ribbing and piss take

that followed for around a week,

until someone else slipped up

and they left me alone to brood

on the glue factory and death

of a noble horse.

 

It didn’t bother me when I

found out around the same time

sentimental age

that Native Americans and the cold

people of the North used

fish to make their glue, it didn’t impact

upon me in the same way, I happily

carried on making scrap books

and wondering why anyone

would stick such shit up their nose,

a waste of time when my own madness

gave me much greater meaning.

 

I cried on the day they killed Boxer,

not for the noble horse although he was

a mighty steed, warrior and strong minded,

but I finally realised the power

installed into the fingers of Eric Blair

who had already made me

feel sick when I read about the year

in which I turned thirteen.

The boxer hasn’t died yet

but the lashes to the beautiful frame

cut deeper and deeper

and with flesh flies gathering

and maggots oozing, writhing

in a blow me dance,

the horse slowly

wishes it was dead anyway.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016