ǝlddɐ
horse races,
annual hat festival,
and a certain Tyson,
Mike,
got off the Metro at Ascot,
the Garden Terror,
(exhibited by Don King),
penguin suit
unforeign fashion,
strange firefly
on night white background
(and today ghost wandering
tattooed through my house),
and the truth, ma’am,
is that,
now inside the racetrack,
Tyson touched your arm,
and that,
at the same time as your iPod was going off,
and that before
the shouts under the tent,
and the consequent roar of the mass
and the Garden Terror
against 1,
against 100,
against 1,000,
against the rest,
against life,
and all of it before
my sheriff’s badge
-unproductive pedal-propelled Dodge-
and my last executioner’s fear
after firing into a black’s temple,
that is,
at the same time as his bubble world
and our crescendoing madness,
Skull Island,
I repeat, I saw it:
your son was also going off,
your iPhone was also going off:
Tyson just wanted to warn you.
___
TS Hidalgo (43) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), a MBA (IE Business School), a Master in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines like, among others, Otoliths, By&By, Poems-For-All, Clementine, The Unrorean, Alien Mouth, Haggard & Halloo, Transcendent Zero, Crack the Spine, The Bitchin´ Kitsch, and Rat´s Ass, and he has been the winner of prizes like Criaturas feroces (Editorial Destino) and Pandora Magazine in short story and a finalist at Festival Eñe in novel. He has developed his career in finance and stock-market.
