Masochistic Perceptions, Trials and Truths

These are my cyberfied cerebral synapses ricocheting off reality as I perceive it: thoughts, opinions, passions, rants, art and poetry...

Saturday, December 06, 2008

Barcelona Bullfight
(This poem was originally written when I was in Spain and witnessed a Bullfight. I was disgusted by the barbarity of it all. I have revised this piece several times since then in an attempt to convey how obscene of a specatcle it was, and how it remains as a horrible image in my mind some 18 years later.)

Levered latch lifts, leaps open
frigid falsetto metal
anticipation animates in a colourful wave…


dodging, matador satin red cape sailing,
cuts an assaulting armada through atmosphere, dust
salt and sand sprays - stings the eyes gritty
round and round
heavy stomping hooves, tearing tangents in the turf, canon crowd cries, charging
grime-crusted nose scrapes soiled ground, lunging- OLÉ!

fresh blood accelerating through ejaculating veins,
surfacing streams streak, congealing with vapours on black velvet fur,
glazed silver with sweat;

OLÉ! and stabbing; six
spikes, colourfully flagged, now snared in bloodied nape, shaking, shimmering, sword striking
shoulder, blade to blade- stabbing, stumbling,
vomiting blood, crimson, CHARGING!


anger and frenzy collide in climax,
as hateful lovers,
dominate and degrading,
chaos and circles
blood and charging,
olé and bleeding,
bleeding, charging,
disoriented in exhaling breath of dust
rapid respiration
round and round,
pounding the last of life remaining
revealed arteries surrender pulsing,
red cape flash-

OLÉ! a pause.
Matador winks at a seniorita in the crowd.
His gait, swaggering confidently as a peacock before his mate, controlled in bright ceremonial costume, metallic and gold. Bull, standing, staggering, bleeding, staring, nodding for mercy
like the condemned who know no chances remain,
spikes still sticking in his nape, teetering reeds in wind,
blood dripping subdued, tapping silent, scarlet onto earth from his protruding tongue, a planting seed, vomiting;

Matador returns with a sword, shining silver from its sheath,
the Spanish sun
a cloudy hush;
tin band begins
playing, it is done-


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