One
Two
Four
The bull paws at the white, scorching sand
As the amphitheater rises to the challenge of
A blazing sky
And the anger is sublime, intoxicating, slicing through meaty veins
Like spears thrown from some distant stronghold
Right on target
And the subject of fury is that man
With the red flag
With the sword
El Matador
With his swagger
Always a lunge away
Eight
Nine
Twelve
Always dancing, always pivoting
Slashing hair, flesh
The space between bones
Spattering scarlet with practiced movement
The bull screams
Swings its sinuous neck
Because the pain was never supposed to come
Because they told you what was wrong
They told you to press and spin the cap
And hold manufactured freedom between your ring and index finger
And take it with plenty of water
To avoid heartburn
Fourteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
You will dance
You will not breathe
Nineteen
Twenty One
Twenty Four
But you will also lower your horns
And win beastly survival