spot the themes on the donkey

[she's an angel i think. a raven-haired one, with a stormy-grey countanance who trails a cloud of discontent behind her as if being assigned to me is punishment for whatever transcendental sins she has committed.]

you once held my hand and walked me through the rain.
it wasn't so bad was it?
now hold my hand and walk me through the pain?
please. i know they're callused and old and have been slammed between drawers and tables too many times, but they can be the gentlest things you ever felt too.

[it doesn't hurt that she has a chest that manages to be both shapely and on scale capable of suckling nations. or that the secret, sacred place between her legs seems to beckon me to bury my head there and sup deep from her]

no.

[sometimes i loath her with a passion that does more to convince me of the existence of a god than she does. only something spawned by an egomanical, wilfully callous deity, who could fling his children into the wilderness, could have the capacity for such hatred]

then give me a little something; something for the pain.

can i tell you a story instead?

will it make me feel better?
don't laugh like that. please.

listen:
there's this grin that they have. the men with the wrinkles around their eyes and the weather-beaten skin who look like they've just strode out of a sergio leone western. you need to summon that grin. you know how they grin like that?


no

well here's the secret and it's the best thing anyone will (n)ever tell you:
pull your hat down over your eyes, learn to take shallow breaths like the air is full of desert sand, sit upright in your saddle and ride away into the sunset pretending there's something better on the other side.


...can you give me a horse then?

mail : bigreg at budweiser dot com