Like A Red Rag to A Bull

She skilfully wielded words

like a picador with his vara,

seeking to disembowel, discharge, and disintegrate.

Observers meticulously tracked

each shift in mood,

as if she were testing

her presumed querencia.

They duly acknowledged

every twist of my head,

my vision blurred,

for paying attention does not guarantee retention.

Peto won't protect me anymore,

even if I blurt out.

Her picador strikes

behind the morrillo.

My muscles grow weak.

They drew the first blood.

The actual battle has only just begun,

with two closest banderilleros against me.

Magenta and gold capote flutters in the wind.

My favourite horn is out of sort.

They know,

attempted territory won.

Banderillas stuck to my shoulders

without glorious results.

Aplomado state of anger, agitation, humiliation, and shame,

thrilling the audience with faena dance and artistic shapes.

How killing the weaker could ever make sense?

I question the logic behind the enraged face.

Three women against one, plus one man.

The purpose of society is being fragmented.

Why are you all doing this?

Is it for the sake of fame?

Logorrhoea is dragging you down

even though you won't even lift a finger.

While you destroy, justice awaits on the next stage,

after they bury the tercios in disgrace.

You will peruse my books as you wallow in hell,

unaware that your behaviour caused all of this,

a writer arisen

from your poisonous ashes.

---

Thank you for reading!