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The Shunning of the Bulls

Good day, dear friends! Did I not tell you that you could walk upon the water, why did you not believe me? …Hold on… that may have been some other dude.

Ever feel like you’re spending time staying out of trouble? Like you can’t stand still because it would find you instead necessitating a series of small clandestine movements and the occasional sprint? For me the optimal allegory would be composed of a weekend in Pamplona. Masses crowded into the roads as enraged, horny man-cows do their utmost to disembowel everyone. Outside of Spain, other charging mammals may still seek you out. Rhinos of anxiety, mountain goats of crippling depression, perhaps an elephant of rejection or a self-doubt espousing ibex. Watch out for those ibex, fleet AF, they can appear absent warning out of a mist.

For the most part I’m relatively successful in managing said intrepid bestiary. Where I’ve YET to establish dominance would be in Freddy Krueger’s realm. Dreams have the capacity to torture you far worse than any woke suffering. A second can last an eternity and consciousness is the only dream.

Aaanyway, I know I said I wrote 2 new pieces yesterday and that is true but I’m sharing a slightly older, also unpublished, selection anyway. I’m just mercurial like that. Enjoy!


“Shunning of the Bulls”,  June 22, 2018

Stay right here and bar the door

Can’t protect you anymore

Vulnerable while you snore

Mind floats off to distant shore

Muted sound becomes a roar

Sprint through dusty downtown core

Side step, jump but always more

Can’t permit dream-bulls to gore


What you want to do is fall asleep clutching a red cape and then when it appears in your dream you can use it as… a tourniquet. It’s not like you suddenly learned to bull-wrangle… this isn’t The Matrix guys.

I’m excitedly off to work shortly but feel amazing regarding concept of writing earlier in the morning. Getting up is small hardship and it’s a fantastic way to start the day.

Happy trails and wagging tails!

-Alex Blaikie

Categories: poetry writing

Tagged as:

dreadpoetssobriety

A broken mind held together by cellophane and some tack.

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