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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