( me / via )

"Things get so bad that describing them is an act of obscenity." (I wonder what in 1992 he was referring to? Oh, right.)

"82
They prance in woodland

I saw these creatures · strewn as trash,
beside castoff paper · and sticky popcans
scattered reckless · at the side of the road
discarded from some · speeding coach.
They darted once · from dappled ponds
to fields filled · with flowers and beasts,
as summer’s light · shone on the backs
of their manes and sinew, · muscles sleek.
They prance in woodland, · practicing charms,
games that no human · can heed or solve,
chanting the songs · our senses can’t grasp,
darting to mounds · our minds cannot find,
the holes beneath earth · our eyes cannot see,
the spots in the leaves · our skin cannot feel—
What crimson stains · cast on concrete,
slivers of flitting · shadows, flattened
like a page, whisked · into wind, and mangled.
What fence we’ve caught · these creatures inside,
the sharp metal shards · scraping on skin,
what fur sticky tar, · tarnished by sun.
What creatures are caught, · crushed by an eye,
ground in the mirror · of the motor’s sheen?"

--Cassidy McFadzean

Showing up to the coffee shop with this baby and turning all the heads.

"sundown
creaking
the moon wanes"

--@poemexe.com

Todd Pratum memoir online.