Less than little, then lose everything

Pinkie Pie is a pink pony and she is on her back in a gutter on the side of a gravel road and these are words.

Never know. The pink pony will never know. On her back in the filth, always the filth, she chose it and nothing would choose her. In the curb, the gutter from which she moans. Too deep for those passing too care. The others walk by with crooked legs. Along the road, they continue but it is known they aren’t much better. Nothing better at all. The pink pony hates all the more. I’ll never know, she says, it went wrong, all goes to hell. We’ll go to hell. In the end there is nothing. In the end we have nothing and never ever. She clutches refuse to her and it is nothing.

Some words will be here with the pony. Went to far right and now there’s nothing left. It’s simple, we kill every one. She has no solutions. No excuse for a living being. In the mud and she never was. The worm, sinking yet further. Craving a mouthful of dirt. Tell her who she is. I’ll tell you who you are. She turns on her stomach. Better smell the pain there. The confession, it’s all a space of waste. You will never know how it feels to light up the sky. The sun long burnt out. Are you a lady? The pink pony will never know. It was her choice, who can blame her? She doesn’t look up any more. It’s just that no one thinks about you and your stupid song. The other things pass by and her face remains in the dirt. She swallows an ant. Who can blame her? Some four legged things walk by. If you don’t, I will. They think they’re making a statement. The road thinks it means something. Sometimes the pink pony thinks the gravel bears ill will. Sometimes that it can speak. Of these only the former is accurate, not that way. Most of her thoughts are not accurate. The pink pony is full of thoughts and little of them are accurate. To hell with them. No deliberation there all drowns anyway what a bitch.

Now a memory, she once had those. In the home all alone, little strange there. Always alone in the rain. Now or then she was under a roof in the dark home, staring at windows was amusing. Touching things is disgusting. Try never to touch things, the pink pony knows she was exemplary there. She didn’t touch the storm, only looked from the window. But it came to her, always was. There are no windows in the gutter, she can see them and they can see her. No windows into the soul, nothing to see anyhow. Don’t ask, don’t tell, go to hell. Additional hell for good measure. Perhaps she’ll eat another ant. Never learned to count, no fingers either. Crooked hooves for crooked legs next is scoliosis. Back to her back then, dirt is back and she’s covered in it. That went wrong too. Are you a lady? No, they can’t tell and won’t. Sky's too gray for clouds or niceties. Sometimes something with two legs walks past, but it’s deader than the cattle. Another for the scrapbook. Have to say you’re sorry, you will be sorry. They will make her sorry. There are occasions where this matters. The taste of candy has been long chased off in this location. She moves her head in the grime and still those on the road persist. Some come and some go. She goes nowhere. There is no memory of the others and no need. Intermission: Practicing Pat hides inside a broken TV in my back garden. When no one is around he comes out and taps on my window. He takes me for walks along the seafront. Together we vacuum up the sand and clean the coast. He is practicing vacuuming so he can go back to his real house. His mommy sent him away from home because he wasn't very good at it. I think he is really improving his technique. In the morning he goes back to his TV and waits. I think about him all day long until night arrives. He says I can’t let my daddy ever throw away the TV or he’ll throw me in the sea. Sometimes I dream he’s pushing my head under the water and won’t let me breathe. One night my daddy came home from work angry. He made a fire in the back garden and threw the TV on. I could hear Pat screaming as it burned. The next morning the TV was all black. Practicing Pat doesn’t talk to me anymore. I don’t think he’s very happy with the situation.

The pink pony with the stupid cutie mark isn’t either, that doesn’t matter. Twenty years of sinking. Born to be dead. Ponies are born so they may die. She can’t laugh because her orifice is filled with dirt. What was expected. The typical faults. Give them a voice and they try to say things. Not even a poke in the eye. The proper depth is six feet and she’s messed that as well. They see her and are not fit for consumption. Don’t throw up. The pink pony does, too late, throws up mud and heart. Less than fractions left there but no mind, they’re all dead to begin with. She recounts the facts of life. On her back in nothing collecting dust. Home is where the heart is. Didn’t we already do that one. No soul to speak of, do away with dumb ideas. There are no solutions and her legs are broken. Whimpers are a statement. She was not so sweet. Then a carcass. Wasn’t much. And they’ll go to hell on misplaced intentions. Even less. All her thoughts are pretty much the fucking same. And maybe she hates all them or maybe just you. In the dirt the pink pony knows better than the rest. It’s profound. Less than not. Crawl in dirt look empty whimpers. Probably go wander off or something whatever