Sunday 4/11/2010 01:44:00 AM

Matadors. Bloody knees. The corduroy swishing between their legs. The swords. Sticking the bull. The spectacle of death exploited.

I can see now. The parallels. The inherent resolve. In defiant time travellers. meting paradigms. Averaging the sacrifice. For what time is left. To realise. To become.

Minor lies on the tongues of gods. Still learning to speak.

No words. No language. Just the broken math. Of fragile monsters.

The matador's blades still in their backs.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.