Cleveland Bay, pure. Bright bay, 17.3 hands. Big Girl. Bella, formerly Bertha.
Big Bertha, Big Bella, Big Girl.
Thick stable doorway, old former 17th century barn.
Me in the doorway,
Big Girl trying to squeeze on through.

Me feeling squishpop on upper layer of shoulder muscle fat compound.
Quick rapid roll away and I manage to dodge the giant as she squeezes through. Nearly crushing me against the stone doorway.
This horse once dragged a vet along on a rope, he was clearly a skilled waterskiier, as he slid upright across the overgrown yard, his heels channeling through the scrubby grass and mud and leaving a trench of Carry-On mud. Pure James Herriot. The vet laughed it off, and laughed even harder when he found out I’d bought the monster horse. A big, Charge of the Light Brigade motherfucker, from the dodgiest horse dealer in town. Motherfucking horse dealing cocksuking motherfucker.
Sorry, I’ve got to go, I was geting into that too. Sorry, pressing business.
Thanks

Fallen off the perch.
Standing on the bus.

GE Capital bank.
Breathing, standing over me,
breathing, down the back of my neck.

No dragons in these hills, no toast
Just mostly broken things that I must repair
But try explaining that to a credit management representative squalking from deep in a ruptured cancerous bowel.

Was I simply surfing an economic wave, wrapped up in my limited abilities and screaming around like a twat in the hills. Or can I limpet onto this motherfucker and ride it out like Turner knockin’ out the rent from a ships mast in a storm at midnight.
We’ll see.
I’m so broke I’m thinkin’ about buying a banjo, some cut off denim dungarees and a straw hat and dinglin danglin doo and doo doo doo and shit.
Or something.
Stop, persona.