Give me your impossibly proportioned horses.
Give me barrel chests and rectangle torsos.
I’ll take your edema tree-trunk legs or else the spindly ones,
the twigs that would buckle under the real weight—two thousand pounds
of 100% hay-fed muscle yes, give me your t-rex eyes, the ones that peer
out from triangle sockets high on the head like a terrible reptile.
And please, give me your two dimensional horses, none of that three-quarter view.
Shitty attempts at a rearing stallion drawn in Ticonderoga on a ragged edge piece of
wide ruled that was supposed to hold the Pythagorean theorem in fifth period,
I’ll take that traced-from-your-favorite-google-image palomino any day.
We’ll have to have some manes, too. I want manes for days, either five short lines flat against the
neck or a thousand flowing hairs cascading across the page, your choice but no in between.
Can I get some right angles here? I need some specifically right angled raised forelegs
in my life. I need some grapefruit noses with pitch black nostrils, singular line for a mouth
type horses, the ones only a ten year old girl could make. I need them plentiful and endless,
galloping in a mass. Yes, I need a herd of poorly drawn horses running wild on poorly drawn
legs.
The ones only a ten year old girl would make, because only she would draw that first shaky line
in graphite, so rough, so unhorselike,
And keep going.