(on realising that Carmen is a bull)
Trampling home from the theatre,
I was inspired but mad as hell,
seeing red I made my way home —
I was mad as hell
and didn’t know why
and then it struck me
straight from behind the morillo
carmen is the bull! shit
carmen is the bull!
and i am mad as hell
and love who you will
and carmen is the bull
and love who you will
and i am mad as hell
and carmen is the bull
and change your mind at will
and freedom is the pull
and carmen is the bull
and I am mad as hell
It’s not fighting, it’s running
(corrida de torros) —
love is blood sport for sure,
none can tame the red
feet heavy, starting to sound
like more than shoes —
nostrils flaring and steam
rising from every out breath.
Maybe never, maybe tomorrow.
But not today,
to penetrate the mind
the skin that
Carmen is in
the fall begins
flying into swords,
(estocada) it is done
too well, the voice
came louder (forte):
Carmen is the bull!
Carmen is the bull!
and I am the fool,
cannot run free
with banderillas in my neck
the one with a (muleta) sword
You think to hold it fast, it flees you.
You think to flee it, it holds you.
The pleasures are in the fight they would sing
(toreador and soldier):
to kill is to win and to win is to kill!