DEAD BULL’S POEM
The bull is pounding sand.
What does he know?
Maybe the crowd is here for hint,
Maybe they want to see the guy
in fancy hat and silk jodhpurs
get gored through the heart,
his rib-cage battered by hoofs,
his flashy red cape
stuffed down his gullet.
But out stride the picadors,
jabbing the creature
with sharp lances,
thawing blood and pain
from his shiny brown rump.
Maybe they just want to get him worked up,
raw anger flaring through his nostrils,
muscle and bone pulsing, hammering.
They’ll stand for no mistakes this time.
The matador must be destroyed.
And out struts the man in question.
The bull snorts.
He eyes the villainous showoff.
Sequins, indeed.
Roses! I’ll give him roses!
The crowd cheer.
But why?
El Whatshisname is not even dead yet.
A POET READS
On that smoky, humid night,
all the poems she had written
suddenly fell out of her face,
crashed on the blood-soaked reefs
of throat and breasts.
She hated herself for
this waterfall of selfishness
but when does the pain
have time to size itself up
against other pains,
It acts immediately
according to its creed,
pounds away at all it sees,
reckless and ruthless,
tearing at the scenery,
down to the brittle words,
“Let me out of here.”
John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Fox Cry Review.
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