Caligula’s Horse

I have a Thracian horse called Nugasia. It is black. It is white. It is eighteen foot long. It sleeps in a shoebox at the end of my bed, guarded by five Nubian slaves. My sister laughs the dormouse when I undress it for the night. When the pine trees rustle, in summer dragon winds, it neighs like a whore and barks like a little bird. When I bath it in ruby crude wine, it shines like a krustallos pond in sardine moonlight and reflects my massive pectoral fins. It eats gold and little marble statuettes, but often times it don’t like it. Nor does it eat the flesh of treasonists. This makes me sad. When I flog it, he cries a red current. I then try to comfort it gracefully. I let the peasant girls brought in from the villages ride it and play with it. There is great happiness shared and reached by all. When my horse is mirthful, I rule the world with a velvet sword and rosy poison. And Nugasia governs me. For I was once like him.