IF YOU PULL A LONG FACE : Part XIV
IF you pull a long stiff face
Week after week while you parley
You risk stoking the furnace
Ill-chosen words all ending in nay
If you keep pulling the long red face
The Picador will puncture your vertebrae
Blood-splashed mane from banderillas
Beware you'll be the only felled prey
If you keep pulling that long mane face
The blood-thirsty chorus crowd cry Olé
Eyes mist over ears dim to the populace
Beware Beware the Torrero about to slay
If you insist on pulling the long bull-face
Horns flayed by muleta-faena coup d'épée
The Torrero bucked up with rude applause
Take heed the estocade's only an inch away
Now if you must pull that long lost face
Neither party willing to give some leeway
No Wall can stop the People ALL debase
Hell to pay in havoc-wreaked 2020's back pay
© T. Wignesan - Paris, January 10, 2019
Poet: Ken Jordan
Poem: Matador
Edited by: Sparkle Jordan
written: October/2015
Bravely
he
poses
before
the
gates
of
sudden death -
Poised
to
face
his
most
formidable
foe -
He's
the Toreros,
fearless
with
bullfighting
etched
way down
in
his soul.
He's
Debonair;
In
a
Traje De Luces,
holding
Banderillas,
and
Montera.
A
Matador?....
Yes,
Agile
with
grace,
His skills
are
mystic
Inside
the
Bull Ring
where
thousands
roar!
to
watch him
wave
his
Capote De Paseo,
to
the face
of
a charging
beast -
And
with each
narrow escape,
the
Matador De Toros,
hear's
the crowd
roar!
for
his artistry......
He's
a
flamboyant
maestro -
King
of
the ring -
Dressed
to
kill,
preparing
to
thrust
banderillas
Into
a bull,
upon
the blood red
dirt,
in
black
Zapatillas
Copyright (c). 2016 Ken Jordan
The Flamenco Dancer and The Bull
The acoustics of your snuffle
is an absolution
of a descending staccato
in an E chord.
Behold, my lancing third,
an urgency to trick you
with my jalapeño-colored capote,
to mask the stains of your blood
as it oozes, while I thrust
these Romani banderillas
in your neck.
Tease me with impulsive pretence
of your Berber-like invincibility,
while I magnify
your monotonous habits,
triggering the sequel
with the mutiny of these senses
in a most soulful manner.
Beware, my gitano-inspired estoque,
hidden and within a rhythmic beat cycle
in sync with a Moorish chant,
while my arms obliquely stretched
plunging to your bosom,
as I dare to move my hips
in a sultry fashion, to anchor it
in your Andalusian-unceasing being,
Oh! My Iberian-bred tragedy,
consummating my tableau
with your immortal inexistence.
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