Lorca You Deserved to Die

Lorca You Deserved to Die


From the streets of Granada
to the drainpipes of my house,

there is only
the noise of bulls and bullets,

only the radioactive voices
of priests and whores
in my skull,

and forgotten heroes smoking pot
in the rain.

Lorca, you deserved to die,
like any other animal
in any other country.

The tree
outside my window
bears no songs, no scriptures, no more…

and the night
is corrupted
by dangerous afterthoughts,

will God appear upon my wall?
have cigarettes become costlier?
will you,
yes you,
stop being a joker,
and write a good poem for once?

and Lorca, you deserved to die
like any other magus
in any other fable.

Poems rot by the dozen here,
and almost every dog
barks at the universe,

almost every day
my memory starts failing me
and I can not recall my age or my birthday-

Lorca,
did I meet you once
in a landscape of crutches
that your friend painted?
Or am I only time-traveling, with a pistol in my hand?

Am I only recalling a dream
of moons, grapes and sinful woodcutters,
a dream that fell
from your sleeve
when they took you away?

From the streets of Spain
to the cinemas of my city,

I only breathe hell
I only search for the bones of dead horses

I only curse you for cursing me
with this
burden of dreaming.

And Lorca,
I must tell you this,

you deserved to die,
like any other pianist
in any other concert of crystals.