Cicada, Corrida: at the fight, not fuck

Cicada, Corrida
‪This just in: your reporter Kermit The Frog
dateline: Columbia
Like any, every, cock-blocked,
Sriracha-sodden troubadour at sunrise,
Cicada Félipe, sighs into his sangria
Ended his cabana-days poolside
Bar-tab’d to hell
Car-keys & stray wings
Scattered all about‬
Sea-wall of cicada arrayed battalion-by-battalion
Serried rank-upon-rank:
Cicada Félipe shudders:
I feel the darkness coming
I feel the birth of death
I feel crowning birth of my death
The sluice, the sewer, the corrida whence came I
My longest day approaches,
The crazing of the light,
Yet have I spent my days not at the fuck,
Only at the fight

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