Wednesday, February 27, 2008

The Bulls of Hemingway (a poem)

10


The Bulls of Hemingway

Roses are not always red, especially, if you have someone
else paint them blue. And sometimes it is better left un-
said: who is the hero of the bullring!

O yes my friend, bulls and bullfighters, are not always art-
less, especially when you celebrate them, with brass bands
and balloons.

Bulls and balloons, bulls and balloons, and Hemingway,
whom is for the bull or the matador, how much bull can he
feed us? I’m for the hero, whoever it may be, who puts
on the best show, man or beast, or neither.

The bull stands ready to charge, and the matador is saying:
go, go go, I’m ready. Hence, the bull gives him his horn in
his rib, and he flies in the air, falls on his butt, and the matador
goes: shit, shit, shit…I missed. And then someone comes and
takes his place, the bull is now tired, thought he had a chance,
and the bull goes: shit, shit, shit, and gets stuck with the sword
several times through his hump (between his neck and spine)
and whose the hero?

In such cases like this, there are no heroes, and thus, I’d prefer
the painted blue rose, instead—why waste my time.


#2289 (2-27-2008)

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