by J. Sean Rafferty
Much has been said
of bulls in china shops
without anyone asking who
built a china shop
in a field of heifers.
They smeared one in bronze, put it
to work, used it as a metaphor on
Wallstreet. Worshiped it like it were
made of gold. Moses would be seeing red.
Blasphemers blamed the Bull; called it business.
They took it by the horns
tossed it in a prison of corridors,
blamed it for its birth; called it myth.
Now we still pierce its hide, its heart.
We cheer for its blood on the knife; called it sport.
Are you aware Bullock are not
chemically castrated should the need arise?
On the contrary, the testicles are clamped,
contorted, constricted beyond crippled or use for that matter.
Not so much castrated but rather crushed; call it agriculture.
The ruin of a species reputation.
Tàin, business, myth, butchery, sport; call it what you will.
Much has been said
of Bulls in china shops.
Not so much of humanity in humans.
J. Sean Rafferty is a redhead, a godfather and an eejit. He is an MA student at the University of Ulster and was a finalist in the 2018 Ulster Poetry Slam. His work has previously been published in Gravitas and The Paperclip. When not losing games of pool he, sometimes, writes stuff. @Atlas_snow on Twitter.
