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Jamie Riley Apr 2018
They look out from the terrace.

At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.

Sun beams brighten motley roofs
on tessellations which blacken beige
in blurry air.



























BANG!





















An artificial cloud.

































“Look,” she points, “Let’s go!”

She takes him and they fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.

Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.

“They’re coming!
"¡Ya vienen!"

Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.

Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.

Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and drive the mute beasts's sounds.

Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;

indoors,

apart,

he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner.

Long strides

too fast to follow.

She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and a beast crashed in.

She turns and the fear is paralysing.




"FERMIN!"







































­












He leaps down steps
and explodes
as it rams her
to and fro,
bashing her head
against the wall
where horns sin
and horns gore
cement and brick.

He grips the tail
heaving its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine,

he slips and slides
in fractured glass
and finds a horn
and yanks the head;

is yanked instead,
half dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to shout and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer
fast and frantic
flying flustered
by the frenzy
finding the
pattering
of
pavement



petering



into





the











street.





"¿Que ha pasado?
  ¿Quien ha sido?
  ¡El Balbotin
  y la Chicha!
  ¡Que una vaca
  les ha pillado!"





His hands bleed
and flesh breathes.

"¿Estas bien?"

Dizzy, she tends to him
with searching hands,
and scolding words.
Men and women
fuss and frown,
always making sure.

"Podria haber sido peor"

Another story for the herd.
This poem is about an incident which happened to my Grandparents, Fermin Yanguas Ochoa and Raimunda Ramos Frias.

It was during a bull run in their village (Fitero) in Navarra, Northern Spain. 1972
Megan Jun 2018
I miss the late night drives,
With you by my side-
I miss the late night skies,
With glowing stars like glowing eyes-
I miss the late night highs,
With the bonfire for light.

Oh and how I am now-
With none of the above.
Oh and how I am now-
With Nothing I love.

I just miss the you and the smile,
The rush of love gone wild-
I just miss the hands in the cold,
The warmth of something to hold-
I just miss us naive;
not wise and old.

I don’t have the time though,
To think of these now.
I don’t have the time though,
To wonder about how.

It’ll just be me—
Upset again forever.
It’ll just be me—
Learning to love another.
It’ll just be me—
In the end loving myself.

But then again
          I’m still left
                    With Nothing
                                I love
I feel unnecessarily angsty and such ****
Delanie Oct 2017
I just want to walk over yellow leaves,
red leaves too,
watch their damp fabric crinkle under my heavy steps,
and continue down the road.
My jacket and shoes tap with the sound of a fall rain.
You said it was over,
but it hasn't hit me yet.
this path that I follow is spinning
moving with the music that blasts through my headphones.
it's funny,
I never thought I would let you get to me
but you did.

— The End —