Culling of the Centaurs
On piston hooves
they part the fields of gold
Greek masterpieces
trotting along
Sun kissed glitter
across their autocratic cast of classicism
Pendulum swinging
hung like a horse
by the gallows
and gibbets
A headsman with a Clydesdale frame—
man’s head on a horse
under Horsehead Nebula
oozing like blood
repelled by pearly gates.
Sacerdotal song
hieratic chant
polyphonic
catatonic
woeful as a lost child.
Gregorian
and baritone
deeper than a Stygian chasm
Hadean chambers
echoing hollow
piercing the molten heart of our world.
Driving the beasts
whip and heel
sweat and slaver and foam
Home, James! and don’t spare the horses
plowing arteries in oceans of wheat.
Amid the awning of the
Sacred Stable
smith and scrivener
bowman and bride
getting on like a house on fire
more specifically, a horse on fire
braying in the fumes of her flesh
Cantos filling the air
imbuing the black of night
veiled by plumes
mephitic banners
Tapestries
of mythic proportion.
ABOUT THE ARTIST
James Callan lives and writes in Aotearoa (New Zealand). His fiction has appeared in Apocalypse Confidential, Burial Magazine, X-R-A-Y, Reckon Review, Mystery Tribune, and elsewhere. His collection, Those Who Remain Quiet, is available from Anxiety Press. X: @James_CallanNZ
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