from fifty caprichos, after goya  
 

Here Where The Spring Has Lost Its Verdure          

It is the boniness of age

that brings them down,

here where the spring has lost

its verdure     this old man

with ears like wings

who wields a paint brush,

dips it in a pot of oil

& mash, will raise it to anoint

the billy goat, their courier

& king.  How light

the sky is here,

how dark

across the page.

That couple riding on a broom  

like two lost witches,

feel the stick

against their sex,

how easily it glides,

a blackhaired maiden

& a crone,

both with a sense of

desperation,

skimming the thin air.

Is the owl overhead

their mentor?

And the watchers down below,

what do they see

or do they?

They have become

so small,    

a million laughs

still not enough

to make them happy.

Wet & black

they will stand guard

till morning,

better wakeful

than to be bathed in sleep,

poor souls,

& made to dream.

23.iii.05

The Luxury Of Pleasure Hidden                   


To make a babe a bellows

so that they blow it

out his ass    igniting flames,

the luxury of pleasures

hidden, Goya's monsters

even now engaged

in foul caprichos    like a fart

an article of faith,

the babes brought to the table,

not for sex                                                                       

but food     for sex

and food.

An angel mother

stretches out her arms

above them, cries

into the dark,

another lugs twin babes

ready to skew,

to screw at almost

fever pitch.

A babe redeemed

becomes an ape,

sucks on his thumb,

can’t bear the weight

of monkey babes

who cover the rank

ground beneath, look up

with faces peeled

like masks, reduced

to skulls.

These men are thin

but powerful

& hungry.

No one escapes from them.

They track us down

& when we fall

they rise.

19.iv..05

She Is Their Slave & Springs For Them                

They pry the pages of a book

apart    from which

the scraggly virgin reads,

ears long & pointed,

legs around the centaur’s

head, perched

on his shoulders.

She is their slave

& springs for them,

to sweep, to spin,

to ring bells,

howl, yell, fly, cook,

grease, suck, bake, blow.

The men who hold the book

are cardinals   the others

raise their heads

out of a pool of sand,

their bodies lost.

Devout profession

that ensnares them,

leads them through a night

with stars   

a congerie of bodies,

naked    squashed

the foremost (prince

or princess) tilted

forward, chin propped up

by thumb

& toothless like

his good companions,

eyes wide shut,

a heavy shadow

hanging over them.

They will await

the day break.

In the glimmer of an eye

a particle will fall,

bird calls will sound

inside their heads

like howlers

whirling, calling forth    

the names of God.

22.iv.05