KNOW your fate
Don’t just ******* talk about it or think about it
Let the sucrose of the idea of that fate percolate your mind, know it and all of its idiosyncrasies, and then accept it and follow it
Hound it down and hunt it until you shoot it in the back of its **** head with a Tommy gun
Then grab that ******* by its hind lags, drag it down that dusty road and throw its *** into the arena
Hurtle it over all those wooden barricades and watch it convulse as his back strikes the dirt ground
Then stand over him with your spear
(you don’t know where the hell this spear came from, it spontaneously materialized in your hand, but its ******* fitting so you go with it)
and bellow “Holy, Holy everything!!! Victory is in my back pocket and all the dues in my wallet.”
The crowd in the ancient stadium cheers
You swing your red cape behind your shoulders
(this red cape is also a recent “randomly materialized” sartorial addition)
and grab a magnolia and bite down on it its succulent stem
Oh my, do you taste that?
How does it first settle on your tongue?
Does it fizzle like pop rocks?
Does it glide like milk?
Toe scrunching sweetness
How does it taste when it inundates your throat?
When it spreads in your chest and settles at the bottom of YOU?
Your fate
The stem
The spit
Your head

Where the devil if not here
In the room with me.
Surprised
In the kitchen
I slide
The chef's knife
Far back on the counter
To hide
Lest she loose control lost
Again, else
Might become real, that image
Now swimming
In her own soup,
Of a chromium-vanadium blade
Gleaming, swinging
In glorious swoop
Home to this chest or head,
Imagining it dead,
Tainted crimson.
Not the first time
I could be a toreador
Fending off his bull
With nearby chair
To save flesh from the goring
Of its horns,
On the way to salvation
At the door.
Still, animal rage
Stands between instrument
And shields awaiting at table
As they are meant.
A lamb, I once used my hand
And it hurt
When steel first broke skin.
Tears weren't
First from pain, but shock
Life was so real and cruel.
Since then the whys
Have grown with our lives.
One or other medication
Will fail to stop the sensation.
Now, my life's exhaustion is
In pondering the question:
Can the coward present neck
As easy offering and end it,
Or continue cowardice,
Facing  the goddess
Conspired to destroy
What once was me.

well it was the alternative to gregory isaac’s night nurse... but then the bouncer on the catwalk with flares... skidding up on a rhyme and cooling it with an edge of the appropriately cut fashion... chased it.*

innit kamikaze (rap’s shortchange in shaken pears
for martini bond and chanced cockney slang in shakespeare,
all 90’s groove though)
lyric’o gangsters
in the mollusk slush
two’s up freed
with the sly sly s.o.s. sloth
chinning up to the chariots of nero’s double for portrait:
naa na na na na na na na na na na na na naa,
naa na na na na na na na na na na na na naa
(i miscounted... didn't i?) -
where kurt cobian’s yeah yeah yeah used to be
along with r.e.m.’s cowboy astronaut.
come mike jagger with me the liszt skeleton
of b & w’s worth of crescendos tipping lazy waitresses
with a toreador’s worth of breezy napkins folded, flapped and sneezed into -
i’ll be dumping my shadow into splits for extras to boot frying it in
the hiroshima of paparazzi’s blinking.
failures are worth other people’s success when playing the lyre to a burn out of capitals:
anyway, edinburgh is the ultimate cameo in the literary bloodline
begot by paris for the 20th century ultimatum of identity scripted.

Yes I did,
Once long ago
I wanted, I wished, I yearned
To be loved,
Saw red in all the eyes
Bleeding hearts
As I charged;
Like an enraged bull
But then I felt the stab
The shocking pain,
And I tried to understand
Where had I gone wrong?
But I was just rearing to go,
I just wanted to love
And I'd charge out again,
And once more
The searing hurt
Would lacerate
Through and through
The truth betrayed
By the laughing spectators
As I tried to stand,
And the warm embrace came
But not of my gift returned
But of my own pool of death
Holding me, until I came to;
Cold as the matador with his conquest,
Though the next time I would
Wield the sword as my own toreador
Even if it was only to plunge the blade
Deep into myself
If only to end this macabre show...

APAD13 - 142 © okpoet

The Matador

I was thinking of taken the bus Seville
But don't know what to do when getting there
Unless I run into a female Toreador
I once met in Seville she was good at killing things
She had once worked at an abattoir, alas, too many men
Surrounded her, she didn't see me
That was long ago she must be 70 years old now
And probably glad to see a man who remembers when
She cut the ear of the of her prey and held it aloft
And the spectators were ecstatic.
Perhaps she has turned away from this slaughter and
Become and protector of all animals.
Did I tell you I was in Seville ten years ago with
A drunken girlfriend?
In a bar, she got up pretending to be a matador,
This was embarrassing
I had to get her out and to the hotel
But, she was in a festive mood
and disappeared in the night.
There are idle moments when I wonder what happened to her.

"Dibble"
 
 
 
fertile feet dibble
in giant blue current
of mind perceives
burning rubber anger
pink innocent tickle
green lean and mean
copulation various bits
of ticks born of clocks
i geyser control
truth purple *****
law gold ****
wet dog philosophy
gangrene stench war
quandary of yellow
red toreador insanity
love kaleidoscope on high
love eyeless riff coffin
six feet down and breath-in

Lorca leans into the bullring's skybox,
freshly painted red and green
like blood and grass beneath the Iberian sun,
where poetry composts into compositions
fit for a toreador, whose tights hug his thin hips,
tempting the huffing beast to hook his groin.

Spain's family jewels bulge behind the tattered
red cape, the one tool of the trade that can't
**** the bull, only blindly enrage it to charge
for its pride, its race, for the red light of glory,
as royalty wave their embroidered handkerchiefs,
awaiting the bull's ****** ear, still warm and steamy,

after so many twirls around the packed-sand dance floor.
Each step kicks up a black faux pas, first lunge
along the fatalistic journey to mortality: a pale thigh gored,
an artery gushes. Gangrene seeps in, drenched
in brandy, which disinfects only the guzzler's gullet.
No antidote to sepsis, no darning of the tights.

The toreador dies to fight another day, his banderillos
still stuck in the **** of muscularity, his eyes darting
among the crowds for a sign of good fortune, good
hunting, as in the old days of machismo and torture
and blind lust for the blood of brutes who threatened
no one but the cowardly prince on horseback, wobbly

beneath the weight of his armor. His ardor as fabricated
as his divine right to rule over the beasts of the field,
over the beaten-down brows of his subjects, toothlessly
grinning at the hope of dining on sacrifice, something
the truly chosen people could do only on the pain of death.
Lorca mourns the dying fighter with the duende of

flamenco, the wild, passionate cry of suffering, the blackest
black of Spain, the urge to create and destroy, to undress
the poet's soul, as naked as a newborn, as powerful as
a raging bull, charging without thinking, divining the forces
of nature like a hurricane, an earthquake. To shout down
death is to immortalize art, as long as human history endures.

Our Sweeney nurses his Falstaff,
Joining his hail-and-well-met fellows in mirth
This man of hearty life and laugh,
His fingernails rife with the stuff of earth and labor.
Outside, the moon’s reflection
In the sluggish and slatternly Canisteo
Is a portentous dot-and-dash thing,
Its light here-and-gone
As incongruous evening thunderheads,
Great wavy pompadours rolling off the big lake out west,
Growl sullenly as they move through;
Sweeney pays them no mind, as he has other fish to fry,
Regarding a frowzy pair from the sisterhood of round heels,
One of whom, catching his glance,
Crosses the room, mounting his lap and mussing his hair,
Purring ‘Jus wanna see how your lap feels, Hon.
At which she falls on the floor
(But softly, in the manner of an old campaigner)
Thereafter taking a moment to pull her skirt up just so
To adjust a stocking (black, with a run or two on display)
As her compatriot stands nearby,
Making calculations and considerations,
And with a barely noticeable nod to her co-conspirator
The pair head to the bar
While Sweeney, grinning the grin
Of a toreador expectant of victory and its spoils
Rises to join them and, just as suddenly, pauses,
Perhaps cognizant of the old poker saw
That if you look about the table
And can’t figure out who the mark is, it must be you,
Or perhaps it was the ringing of the bells on the hour
From Our Lady of the Valley
(Normally inaudible inside the tavern,
But the wind had made an odd swing to the southeast,
Allowing the chimes to occasionally outshine the jukebox)
Or perhaps something else intangible, inscrutable,
But in any case Sweeney bids his congregants
A hasty farewell as he saunters to the doorway,
Exiting into the humid, fecund evening,
And as he negotiates the sidewalk homeward,
He notes the odd evening singing of birds,
Their songs, even though he is part and parcel
Of this small city and its streets to his marrow,
Unfamiliar to the point of bafflement.

"A hope or ambition of achieving something"

A noble quest or dreaded chore,
the hallucinogenic toreador,
wisps of whims woven true,
the holy grail of life's breakthrough
Into
eschew
I.O.U's
Pursue.

Devotees to hullabaloo,
Paths of choice and deja-vu,
Plucked and primed for a grand debut,
Machines of malice turning screws.
The zoo..
The zoo...
The zoo...

"The action or process of drawing breath"

Discipline of time tied to view,
Draw in, draw out overdue,
Wrongful breaths, faces blue,
Expectations to live up to.
You do,
Come to,
Review.

Pupils of fate worldview askew,
Daydreams full of all that you knew,
Breathe; exhale; souls subdued,
Caged and waged into servitude
All you do,
Untrue.

See through.

(thank you All Poetry, COSMOFUNNEL,
Facebook, Hello Poetry
Poetry Soup,... et cetera global friends.)

A network of cherished kinships allied
forged, and linkedin analogous
to union of groom and bride
thru electronic bonds engender intrigue,
nonetheless unconditionally accept,
no matter I chide
self, and reference mine existence
as if...this mortal already died,

now more appreciative than ever,
cuz younger days witnessed
peers that did elide
me accompanied with relentless
teasing, snubbing, roasting
akin tubby kindled over a fireside,
thus...solitude shadowed me as sole guide
peopled with books

to escape and hide
from so called "real"
webbed world, yet inside
this former grievous
lad through alienation,
emasculation, and isolation no joyride
valuing myself less than a pawn on
chessboard of life

envying extrovert as kingside
station depriving, insulating, and
ostracizing yours truly belied
to Matthew Scott Harris
marginally functioning, and denied
him camaraderie, dating, enjoying
female friendships due
to lack of confidence and pride

and at the cusp of
pubescence...a slow descending ride
into the hungry (anorexic)
maws of suicide,
which ideations hammer psyche,
now aghast how I tried
(without success) to disappear sundering
mine complex edifice
into the wide

abyss of nothingness, hence to treasure
those electronic connections,
perhaps...totally no more'n four score
(and seven years ago)
all told of unbeknown village people
comprising worthy chums,
sans human league roar
ring (okay pardon the hyperbole),

but letting this foo fighter explore
a greater range of interpersonal
(no matter virtual), but each
unnamed cyber buddy worth more
than simple rhyming galore
words express, some
or all those who sprung
from Earth, wind and fire,

viz cosmic toreador
this poet would their
physical presence adore,
who realizes genuine experienced love
second best option

Loneliness I abhor,
nevertheless wistfulness
to communicate
thru the Internet...
finds me writing bonjour,
to random readers
familiar with literary nuances
of yours truly
within whose integrated
central processing unit core
reasonable rhymes coalesce
as trademark décor
lapsing words to explore

his existential crisis
enduring eighteen years
subtracted from fourscore
orbitz athwart planet earth
in the balance as informed
Former Vice President
of the United States Albert Gore
his 1992 tree tease
at that time *******
revelations Greta Thunberg
makes sure **** sapiens do not ignore.

impossible mission to encapsulate notion
flitting hither and yon, to and fro
within cranium attached to mine body,
whereby irrefutable proof prevails
predicated when yours truly
scrutinizes other people visibly aware,
I a modest married male
blessed, gifted, whence  
after Scottish Tartan welcome mat unrolled
allowing, enabling, and providing

yours truly as former Beatle browed
foo fighting afterlife member with
grateful dead Mötley Crüe
subsequently quoted posthumously
far and wide as generic, yet proud mortal
with ability to garner massive
fount of knowledge
accrued throughout mein kampf,
yet wonders how such cumulative learning
jam packed tightly

within sixty plus shades of gray matter)
nonetheless garden variety **** sapien
got genetically cheated,
gypped, stinted, et cetera
concerning diminutive measurement
of his hirsute covered thinker
in other words, a disappointment prevails
regarding smaller than average head size
housing the ways and means
to transport yours truly
upon little feet for a grown man.

mine nippy nap noopy noggin (property
of doodling dandy Yankee) yanked
with unsubstantiated figurative yen
noah wide dee ya - Hawaii or when,
Yukon ask me to Maui,
where, why or how then
thine ark of insight fullness arose,
nevertheless yours truly doth pen
(the above and following words),
regarding... pondering aha moment
linkedin with expanding cranium capacity
reference made to poem title

(observation not applicable;
i.e. denied writer of these words, -
who considers himself clodpoll),
a lyft in main gate
of me consciousness did open
escorting uber snorting
noble... what the f* taurus driving Ford;
aries (actually arise zing)
cheese silly steering toward toreador
eventually ramming esse caped
bull rider capricorn to pisces,
similar to no contest

among mice and men
or torturous quirky physiologically
experimental signature laboratory
rat in a cage
tormented viz black barbed dollops
scientist tapping into her/his scrunched ken
grateful for fee fie foe fum
cussing anti-vivisectionists
which aforestated ruse - stirs analogous
accompaniment with mother clucking hen
chosen poetic themed wordsmith
housed in his mancave den.

this wheely tireless confusion
royally loopy gobbledygook
invisibly emanating gassy gut head
eureka moment (regarding
figurative crash test
dummy awakening) drove home
this aye opening
****** tin, peculiar, pated preserve.

four score minus seventeen years ago bonjour
earthlinked contemplative - bore
ring emotive fella, regarding yours truly
otherwise three score and three
year old mortal cannot pinpoint
if thee essential addle skull
measurement housing fifth, sixth,
seventh... heavenly strung out dimensions
of mine built-in bonafide helmet lesser more
smaller than average heard from a digital thread,
reputable ted talk, electronic
broadband transmitted podcast, et cetera,

these bland words readable material in store
categorized as reasonable rhyming article
of faith conveyed courtesy no coat hangers
devoid graphic erotica for any
journeying, wayfaring ******
peeking thru virtual keyhole
door ration online or elsewhere bred
such as storied pay
periodical, nor can I lay
vouchsafe these myopic gray
brown eyes bore awareness fey
via watching an exposé.

though lack of identifying you
dear anonymous reader, thee
might think bistro, milieu, venue,
et cetera, one comment true
lee can be averred with certainty.

sometime within a small crick
number of years ago, a kick
a super ***** crowned cow lick
a phenomenal humongous slick
cranium tried to play cheap trick.

subsequently, this beastie boy
experienced a numb skull syndrome
while linkedin to this zone
seize **** sal lad frosted stone
er flakey state, this acute up pone
hirsute, oblate spheroid hone
betook chrome dome grown.

spongiform territory
noodle could now know
wing lee hone a vaster tract
even a poe Pudd'nhead Wilson
like myself understand ably
venerated woke full perception!

ma mind took laser like focus,
which brought notice, viz
enlargement of sacred brain power,
and hence spurred the above title
once me noggin came
to this hyper awareness frame
(some unknown small game
number of years gone by), name
ming deliberate scrutiny cherished tame
intelligent pod wither ya find me vain.

visual cognition alerted - holy cow
my curiosity how
circumference of ancillary cerebral domain now
impossible mission to scrutinize
anatomical accouterment, which suffered
sucker punch bam plow
wing squarely into twisted
snubbed button nose
(another undersized, albeit
anatomical feature of mine)
wore loosely, wobbly atop shoulders
without doubt mine mean toe
head became larger since taking vow
visual stock (of said) most vital wow
constituent body part. aye aint

got any hard data (hmm... maybe
Cambridge Analytica might know
a tidbit or two) pertaining to this
indisputable cognizance, where
expanding cerebral gray matter
iz concerned. only via circumspection
(more so refined since the recent
forced quantum leap into muddled,
molly coddled, middle age),
this distinct heady revelation
vied to be capitalized, gratified,
and limned into some semblance
of tangential cogency.