The Nietzsche Horse

There were two crazy men, the one with the whip and the one with the huge

     moustache: they were dancing together, no, they were fighting

When the eyes of the whipless one brightened: sometimes that happens when

     you bite someone, or when you’re fucking: people become disturbed

When horses fuck: to them, I think, it’s like mountains fucking: things

     that big ought to keep it to themselves. The idiot man with the whip

Tore his hand away then, and hit me with the little crop—you think that hurt?

     I’m a horse!—but the other man began dancing again, moustache

Covered with foam—what was that? had he run too far?—and he was muttering

     in that barbaric way humans have, sounds like Bismark and German

And even the man with the whip was becoming frightened, or awestruck,

     or maybe he looked like that because he was hungry, it’s hard to tell

About humans, and I was losing interest anyway, a hay wagon was passing,

     it was much more interesting than the weeping man with his arms

Around my neck suddenly, or the moron with the whip—if he’d been a horse,

     he’d have died at birth—moaning God, and the other suddenly

Laughing like a jackal and saying Fool, you have no notion who you’re talking to.