Watch the floating top hats as they nonchalantly step over
the rotting carcasses, plummeting out of the chasm in the sky.
All those aspirations
lie sloshing in the sewer
by their obsidian leather shoes.
The leeches of democracy have sunk their
teeth into the very soul of your musings,
your wants,
your desires.
The grease on the street is not
merely car sludge,
but the decimation of
your naïve expectations.
What did you wish for, Señor Lorca,
when you meandered down the gaping mouth
of depravity, hunger and strife?
Surely you did not find valleys of molten gold
and heaping feasts within the hollowed eyes
of the pavement worshipers.
Crouch by the shuddering lungs that lie exposed
on the gravel beneath your feet,
and vomit the visceral nausea that you have suppressed.
Place your ear by the chapped lips
of the muttering idiot
who lies face down
and feel his abrasive cheek
as his stubble decodes the intricacies
of the blasphemous tower behind your left shoulder.
Only he can tell you
about the vanishing silks,
the fugitive meals
and the lascivious greed,
raping society in the next room.
