Gordon Polone (wompwomp) wrote in bikewriters,
Gordon Polone
wompwomp
bikewriters

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Some works from the Mod to start things off...







Equine Folly/Equus Rex/Cramlets’ Dorse



44 teeth;

No meat nor vegetable flesh do ruminate

Only steel;

Pre ingested interdependent, altered digested

14 lower teeth;

The chewing cycle completes, and continues

Gristly;

Difficult impossible, to digest the idea

But simpler?,

To stomach flying down a hill, heart

Breaking the

Sound barrier, with no hint of brakes.

The problem,

With the horse;

It didn’t take a 5mm allen wrench.









In a car crash, the safest place to be is riding past on a bike.



A centaur was, once upon a time, of this I am convinced.

A literal cowboy, rider and steed blended; somehow, this noble creature was

Hunted to obsolescence. Why?

Technology, baby, technology.

Who needs to hooves to get places in a NASCAR Nation.



Ain’t it the truth though? I mean, I’ve never heard of cyclists ever having a

Head on, t-bone, rollover, sideswipe,

Or any other sort of collision with each other during the course of

Normal transportation.

Never happened to cowboys when they rode around, neither.

Of course, the horse wasn’t filled with

TV’s, child seats, umpteen rows of seating, airbags, power door locks.



Cowboys are past tense, at least in the truest sense.

No longer do we have wild western manhunts with Butch and Sundance,

Nor do we see fancy fellows jumping over and over their horses while they ride side by side with each other.

Often times, though, we invoke their imagery in token manners, not unlike the Native

American.

Both are gone, not lost.



Clippity clop, no more centaurs, only horses with cowboys on them; the upper separated from the lower.

Clippit clop, no more horses, the animal doesn’t live on octane
percentage and can’t pick up members of the opposite sex in the parking
lot.

Clippity clop, no mo=re laziness, I cannot stand it.

Clippity clop, no more excuses. My hooves grow restless, and I must move faster than clippity clop.

Clippity cl-. Shhhhhhh. The sound has evolved. Only whoosh whoosh
whoosh for pedal revolutions.  No saloons nor hay for my horse and
rider, no ouzo nor maidens for my centaur.



I can move now. More than a centaur, or a cowboy, I am the modern
convergence of these previously attempted experiments in self-reliance.
A trait common to these prior examinations of self-sufficiency shows
through, I notice, as I stride through the urban(e) landscapes that
replace the prior stomping grounds north of Colchis:

Pride.



I am new breed of bastard, offending the combustive corpse-wagon corps
at every opportunity. I notice other techno-mentally
(mental-logically?) evolved centaurs who

Share my self-same mental and physical development, and we exchange this information with the

brief

flicker of eye contact and toss of the head in what could be construed as a horse tossing his mane in the wind.



My centaur strides on, seeing other cowboys, other centaurs, snorting
at the combustive wagons and the corpses that they contain, hoping that
they recognize my breed as a legitimate cross breed of man and machine,
and not just a fucker weaving through traffic wearing only shoes,
spandex bike shorts and a helmet.



(end of works)



So there are those, if you read through them all, thanks! If you have any feedback, I'd love to see it!



-joey
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