Friday, August 20, 2010


My reign in Spain lies mainly in the pain
of a manly beast: subdued by dandy men,
his shoulders stabbed while still within his pen,
infused with drugs that flow within his brain.
My theater, no sport so inhumane:
a foppish cape flung round and round again,
a dance macabre of man and bull and then
cheered on by crowds 'til weakened beast is slain.

Poetic justice steals my drama's end
when bull presumes to improvise his part
in man v. beast, and my faux dance is spurned:
The costumed fighters cannot apprehend
the maddened bull with pick and drug-filled dart ...
and then the tables turn and pain's returned.

placed in Poets United Think Tank #11

1. Bull escapes ring and charges into stands
2. Bull gores matador through the neck and throat