BULL
You can’t keep fighting the machine made bull, soaked in rum, thin hipped and swinging broken jaw. You can’t keep it up, even it is tired of you.
The seat of your brown cowboy jeans smeared in gum wads and strings of cocaine, you land hard on its back.
Grip the horns, grip them with snarl grip them with fists clenched you cannot keep fighting it, even you have to rest.
It’s already burnt out.
It’s already, at the hour, where the knuckles of the bartender drag against the face of the clock, push the hands further to the end of the line.
So don’t light another candle, don’t fuse the wax together with gilded hope, you can’t keep pushing the coin into the slot.
The bull made of torn temple canvas and tent poles, it wont ride anymore.
You’ve slipped off, off the stationary back that only moved in waves and waves in your mind.
You slip off, off the slick back still as the bone when it comes out of the flesh,
No, you won’t land anywhere, until your head meets the slimy floor, soaked in rum,
The cord cut off at the knees, the coin too bent to enter.
