Blood-need God Speed

 

With half-grown horns I still am

Subject to he with horns full-grown.

My fellow contenders and I are

Still minions, devout followers of

The Great One, whose crown-borne weaponry

WILL impale, run me through, at twice my reach.

So I follow the herd-and bide my time.

 

With a half-grown mane

I know the time is near.

The Great Leader of our pride

Is threatened by my young blood.

He roars

The Challenge;

Challenge accepted, I rear to meet his charge.

In The Titanic Clash:

Whetted claws, fully extended, slash;

Dagger-length teeth, razor-honed, gnash.

Within a few seconds I was defeated and

Stripped of my pride.

I became a vagabond, exiled to

Hunt

Alone.

 

As I grazed on the savanna

My tongue savored the still-moist grass,

My skin, the cool breeze

Which brought with it

The faint scent

Of

Lion--…

flower,

A scent I liked very much.

The wind shifted to cool my left side;

No more sweet scent, alas.

Now the wind carried the Bovine odor of The Herd,

And, the other smell, even worse, of

Lion -- …

LION!

 

I lay in wait in the brush that was home

To the small game that would have to suffice

As my sustenance until

I returned to claim my throne

At the head of my pride--

I hear a noise--

A noise that I remember liking very much

It was the sound of hooves

Pounding their way towards me.

I tensed, waiting,

Watching…

 

I raced for the brush,

Away from the predators,

Bounding over bushes and boulders

Towards terrain- -cover; where

I would have the advantage in a

Chase.

Coming to the top of a low rise

Almost here…

Straight for the

In the

Brush!

With me.

--corner of my eye, I see

C O I L – S P R I N G t e nsING!

EVADE THE

 

STREAKING GOLD, I SPRING;

Sprint towards the antelope before it reaches thick cover.

 

I swerve to the left,

Keep running,

(…Out of the brush).

Run.

A lion?

RUN.

It’s out now!

Must RETURN to the Brush!

 

I break right to follow my careening quarry,

Both my hunger and anger rising quickly.

 

I jump through, into the brush,

My pursuer, close behind, is

 

Following the prey, I leap through

Into the

 

Brush! I have the advantage now

But,

 

I am within claw’s reach of its flanks;

Yet,

 

I don’t think he will risk a wild swing.

I bound over

 

A bush, I plunge through

 

And stumble as I land.

 

I strike swiftly, clawing a strip of flesh from

 

My hindquarters screamed in pain as I struggled

To regain balance. I did,

 

Very quickly, the beast broke into a run again but

I could sense that

 

The wave of fatigue was upon me.

 

I had still a chance if

 

It pursues

 

Further into the brush

 

Where it is too thick for pursuit:

Just beyond that high rock

 

Over which it hung motionless for a moment;

But not that high as it was already

 

Tired, so tired, but I MUST

 

Leap Now while

 

I am within reach!?

 

I spring upwards and I am within his own horns’ length of him.

 

This is the end.

 

Then my jaws snap tightly shut.

 

Just inches from

 

His jugular;

 

And, as I bound away,

 

I constrict into a distorted figure and drop

Onto the rocks, all my muscles

Tightly bunched in a cramped rigor.

 

I relax my pace and rest,

My rapid pulse slowing slowly.

 

I remain in agonizing, involuntary contraction

For what seems like an eternity,

My heart pounding in

Convulsive bursts.

 

I rejoin my butchered,

Decimated herd.

All those with greater horns are

Dead –

Lion’s prey.

I Lead Now.

MY TIME HAS COME.

 

My body begins to twitch

Back to normality.

My mind raced

All the while I was immobile

With thoughts of

Rage

Bitterness

Hate

Revenge

BLOOD.

There is no rest for the wicked, yes.

BUT IS THERE ALSO NO REST FOR THE HUNGRY?

[written in 1994]