The Wildebeest

A poem what I wrote...

There you stand, wildebeest, there in legion. Just you, them, the bank, the river; grass turns to sand beneath your brittle feet. Ready to cross. The crocodiles wait for you. Right there, right in front of your nose. But you’re too stupid to realise. Who will go first, wildebeest? Surely not you. Who will break character, wildebeest? Step forward when the rest of you cower? Surely not you, wildebeest. Who will set forth that awkward hoof, dig it into the mud? Budge an inch, wildebeest, and the whole crowd will budge behind you. You swell on the edge, a tide of horns and hooves; shuffling forward; nervous, anxious, driven; but not by anything. You’re aware of nothing, wildebeest. You’re too stupid.

Take a drink, wildebeest. You’re thirsty, you’ve been running. You don’t know where from. You don’t know where to. But you’re thirsty. Don’t worry, the rocks in the water won’t hurt you. Well, not all of them. Just the ones with gently smiling jaws. No, you don’t notice them, do you? You shuffle, you all shuffle. You’re one, ten thousand of you are one; a collective unconsciousness. Who’s going to make the move, wildebeest? Not you. You stand and stare. A leg enters the water. It’s not your leg. A back moves forward into the flow. It’s not your back. Another follows in turn. It’s not your turn though wildebeest.

You haven’t tried to kill yourself all morning. Leap wildebeest! Leap to your death! Leap off the cliff, break a leg. Stumble to the crocodile’s waiting jaws. She can end this for you, the journey you will never end, the fear you will never escape. Just jump.

Mindlessly you leap, wildebeest. You could have waited but you leapt. Brave wildebeest, stupid wildebeest. Legs buckle, you’re a heap in the sand. Tail swishes, you’re not dead! No time to waste, you’re up. Beyond, the skies are bruising, beyond the river, beyond on the plains; they lie lush and green, so close, so in reach. Move, goddam it, wildebeest.

You’re churning, wildebeest. The pebbledash, the slippery rocks grab your feet but you rip through them until they vanish below. Then you’re afloat, just you and all the other wildebeest. You, them all, they’re all like you, scrambling, drowning, splashing, panicking, flailing, just you, them, and all the crocodiles. Ahh, it’s not far to the other side, though. Just don’t look downriver. Dennis is being eaten. The croc’s got him around the head. It looks bad to be honest, wildebeest. Best forge ahead. Dennis, stop mooing, it’s putting the others off. You veer with the crowd as they’re swept down by the flow.

Swim, wildebeest, swim, don’t look back. Dennis, is that you I can hear? The whinnying moo erupts and gurgles as the croc rolls him into the rocks below the surface. One more time, Dennis, as you gasp for air, one more time, Dennis. There! There it is, that white flash in your eye, stricken, panicked. Finally you showed some emotion, Dennis, for the first time in your stupid life. There’s more in there after all. But then you’re gone, gurgled your last. Dennis, you’re an idiot. Your dying wish was incomprehensible, like a flooded tape recorder. That’s how you’ll be remembered, Dennis. But you won’t be remembered, Dennis.

You reach the edge, wildebeest – the far side. You fight for space on the slippery rocks, crushed this way and that by your friends. Oh, you don’t have any friends, do you; they’re just other wildebeest. Lots of adjectives that suggest panic and mayhem and fear wildebeest; they’re all there, all being crammed into the few seconds it takes you to scramble up the rocks and alight finally on the soft grass of the plain. Ignore Sarah, she’s being eaten by the waiting lions, she’ll be dead soon. Just run and run and run and run until the grass beneath your feet becomes long and lush; then suddenly stop and start chewing. It’s all over now. Just chew, like the mildly sentient lawnmower that you are.

I wish there was more going on in there, wildebeest. Just something, anything, to consider beyond your grim exterior. It’s like some idiot put you together in the dark, wildebeest. Your hide is dripping now but it will be dry soon. Dry, tight to your skeletal frame, like an ill-fitting cow hide. You’re an appalling mess of physiology. You should be embarrassed. But you’re too busy chewing. And chewing and chewing. Your pointless black eyes six inches from the ground – how’s the view down there?

Move, wildebeest, or you’ll get left behind. The sky is falling in, gun-metal grey, curtains to the north. The rain god has spoken, the grass will be greener. Lolloping seesaw gait, you vanish into the herd. The battalion swallows you. Like an ever-retreating army, an army of the dead, bones on hide, rattling across the plains. You’re nothing, wildebeest. You have no charm, no grace, no charisma. You’re just a hopeless soldier among millions, a lone nothingness. A wandering chunk of meat, prey to greater beasts and scavengers. You’re nothing, wildebeest. Nothing. The dust billows behind your great army as it clatters towards the darkness, off looking for more ways to die. You are nothing without your army, wildebeest. But with it you’re everything.