Spanish window
Posted: October 26th, 2014, 2:14 pm
I'm looking out my Spanish Window
not the one that Lorca looked out of
I'm seeing that gold in some way
we still are viewing things through
old world pictures, flat or round
but this is only like sunken galleons
armadas of butterflies. once coming
over the horizon, is the old world so old?
what ever happened to the new world
Spanish window, but we have jugglers
we have Spanish surrealists, I could say
I'm looking out my Miro' window, carnival
of dots and banners of harlequin, parades
of numbers, spaces within spaces, revolutions
within revolutions, inquisitions within the
inquisition, history itself being judged by
history, the clowns are frowning at the clones
the gypsy's are singing around the campfire
beggars on the streets dressed in scarves
the scarves of ragged bloody sunset
I'm looking through the window of poets
Dali lives here in this landscape of crucifixions
of the absurd, of tigers moving through
the cubistic maze of eyes, of flamenco flames
dancing through the Moorish architecture
through the whirling diamonds of infinite names
what was once a pleasure garden now forbidden
what was once forgotten now found in a buried book
the language is strong and powerful, defiant
seductive, mysterious, the deep green words of devils
of angels, of smoking sentences spoken in passion
uttered in secret corners hidden in shadows of death
upon clandestine epiphanies snaking through alleyways
not the one that Lorca looked out of
I'm seeing that gold in some way
we still are viewing things through
old world pictures, flat or round
but this is only like sunken galleons
armadas of butterflies. once coming
over the horizon, is the old world so old?
what ever happened to the new world
Spanish window, but we have jugglers
we have Spanish surrealists, I could say
I'm looking out my Miro' window, carnival
of dots and banners of harlequin, parades
of numbers, spaces within spaces, revolutions
within revolutions, inquisitions within the
inquisition, history itself being judged by
history, the clowns are frowning at the clones
the gypsy's are singing around the campfire
beggars on the streets dressed in scarves
the scarves of ragged bloody sunset
I'm looking through the window of poets
Dali lives here in this landscape of crucifixions
of the absurd, of tigers moving through
the cubistic maze of eyes, of flamenco flames
dancing through the Moorish architecture
through the whirling diamonds of infinite names
what was once a pleasure garden now forbidden
what was once forgotten now found in a buried book
the language is strong and powerful, defiant
seductive, mysterious, the deep green words of devils
of angels, of smoking sentences spoken in passion
uttered in secret corners hidden in shadows of death
upon clandestine epiphanies snaking through alleyways