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Keith Jarrett
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There were actually three things
about bullfights that fascinated her：
the first, when the bull comes hurtling out of the bullpen like a big rat;
the second, when its horns plunge all the way into the flank of a mare;
the third, when that ludicrous, raw-boned mare gallops across the arena,
lashing out unseasonably and dragging a huge,
vile bundle of bowels between her thighs in the most dreadful wan colors,
a pearly white, pink, and gray.
Simone's heart throbbed fastest when the exploding
bladder dropped its mass of mare's
urine on the sand in one quick plop.
She was on tenterhooks from start to finish at the bullfight,
in terror (which of course mainly expressed a violent desire)
at the thought of seeing the toreador hurled
up by one of the monstrous lunges of the horns
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when the bull made its endless,
blindly raging dashes at the void of colored cloths.
And there is something else I ought to say:
when the bull makes its quick, brutal,
thrusts over and over again into the matador's cape,
barely grazing the erect line of the body,
any spectator has that feeling of total
and repeated lunging typical of the game of coitus.
The utter nearness of death is also felt in the same way.
But these series of prodigious passes are rare.
Thus, each time they occur, they unleash a veritable delirium in the arena,
and it is well known that at such thrilling instants
the women come by merely rubbing their thighs together.
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