for Lorca

[revolutionrabbit]

can't even say the word "poet" with out getting out
them fangs and ready to suck some dat poet blood
oh yeah blood of the poet, see how it suns
see how it runs, it runs in lines of black jewels in gutters of glory
it pours out of great mountains like lava of lust
and all them dead poets and still writing in the dust
and them witches wanna get them some that real poet dust

and today they are about to find the remains of one of them
Frederico Garcia Lorca his name, and he played for keeps
did it with a flaming rose heart and wrote with the holy water of the rose
in his golden river veins
and the scent of jasmine came off his revolution word's rains
and a thorn black cup calls the train flowers
oh the wine bleeds beyond reason's rage
the poems in the morning turn the light page
he saw a future as he roamed the desolation row streets of New York
he saw them dawn in the eyes of the beggars on the main drag
Lorca was holding the spoon that thumped the crocodile
and the vagrant wanderer was holding the diamond bag of universes
as the caravan of his ash fell on the drugged rug, ah, Lorca dug the fix
of the vomiting multitudes as he passed by the ditch of crows

the swan song that wafts through the sunken cities a thousand
catacomb visions in the endless mirrors
the pinkin drunken cities of neon hallucination, his sweet solitude
the inchoate music that drifts through the ghetto of the mind
and drips like a divine poison along the avenue of eternity
them beats keep comin from deep inside some Lorca landscape
of forbidden hidden time
he dreamed of death in the green and danced with the gypsy queen
and then the fascist guards took him off for his last ride
they hurt him and gave the coup de grace along with others
on their list, and he finally was death kissed by the luminous rose moon
and soon we hope they will find his grave along with the bullets in his bones

we hope that all the telephones in his last groans will ring off the hook
and that all the December's children will find his lost book of Deunde
under the dirt where they find his last written remains,
and these words still singing in the flamenco re-bop heavenly vault of night
with a gypsy flute note that lingers still..."As I have not worried to be born,
I do not worry to die"


and a flashing chaos note rings through everything far away, Lorca, Lorca, Lorca
ghost tracks are leaving themselves behind in the dark, dark, dark
down in the buried treasure ground where his soul turns slow breathing below below
and now the picks and shovels come from above, above for Lorca is was about love

[hester_prynne]

"Lorca Lorca Lorca..."
Absolutely brilliant write in every aspect.
I mean this....
Hat's off....
H

[Lightning Rod]

nice tour, rabbit

like this:

oh the wine bleeds beyond reason's rage
the poems in the morning turn the light page