An uncompassionate crowd of 20,000
are tensely sitting in a stadium
bloodthirstily waiting for a cruel spectacle
they call a ‘bulllfight’
which is actually a ‘bull-harass-and-****’.
This brutal bloodsport
is celebrated as a national artform
in Spain
so the matadors (bullfighters) strut around proudly
in their suits of golden thread
to loud cheers and excited applause.

The bull, frightened suffering,
is harassed and killed in three stages:

The first stage is called ‘tercio de varas’
‘the lancing third’
when armoured-horse mounted lancers
use a long sharp lance
to spear the bull behind his shoulder muscles
to weaken the bull’s neck muscles
and begin the bull’s loss of blood;

The second stage is called ‘tercio de banderillas’
‘the third of banderillas’
when the matador attacks the bleeding-weakening bull
with banderillas (sharp barbed sticks)
stabbing the banderillas above the shoulder blades of the bull
to anger and agitate
the frightened bull fighting for his life.

The third stage is called ‘tercio de muerte’
‘the third of death’
when the matador baits the bull
with a red cape
then stabs the bull with a steel sword
aiming for his heart
but often missing
leaving the bull suffering multiple stab-wounds
bleeding, slowly miserably dying.

I wonder
when will this barbaric bull-harass-and-****
be banned in all nations?

Bull paused for strength in
querencia, matador killed
it, comfortably

He shows eloquence in his side step
So close to the touch of death
Yet still breathes in soft breaths
Mine were quick as I grabbed
My stomach sick
Little boys turn to men
Better when they see
The world as it is
I was told
Cold
Nothing says the elderly tongue
Looking for reaction from the younger one
The boy saw
Colors blended by deep holes
Lifting red over
The muscled body torn
Thick legs plan another
Foolish attack
Trickery over the bold
My eyes were wide
As it fell not with grace
Pulled by its legs with rope
To remove from the show
Felt a feeling I did not know
I knew I would one day
Know.
Death
No satisfaction does it know
Pat on the shoulder
From a hand
I might have seen as cold
To this day I still don't know

I told them,  “I don’t feel sorry for Robin Williams.
He lived it. Coke-fueled, bearded trickster of ******.
Well traveled and well versed, raging into worlds
Physical and ephemeral, like a ghostly bull
Goring mortals to unfeel the estoques
Sunk deep into his vital corpse.”

I had a friend who blew his brains out
While his parents were watching tv in the living room
And another who rented a room at the Marriott
Then hung himself off the shower-rod

Both early 20s
You won’t see them on the big screen
Or hear their witty banter on interviews
Chic celebs won’t eulogize them
On “Extra”, “TMZ”,  or “Access Hollywood”
No 2 minute montages
At award shows, while tuxes and gowns float
Clapping in ovation behind the shimmering façade
Of golden statues

They got a few lines in an obituary, in A7
Those who knew them will speak in hushed euphemisms
No one daring to whisper “suicide”
As if it’s the ****** Mary of deaths
Like walking under a ladder, or breaking a mirror
The mirror containing, like smoke, the future
The jagged shards reflecting moonlight faintly

I love them all the same