Lorca

Of all the lines that could be drawn
And have been drawn
And will-
His lines swelled the world:
Round fruits on window sills
And solitary songs sketched on a rail.
 
He, the painter pale,
Paints upon my eyelids and my throat
(Always careful with his strokes)
Orange trees and tobacco leaves,
Spanish encantamiento*,
Until I, the canvas full, begin to weep.
 
I've had no other one whose chest
Could harbor poetry-
Just one-
And he, disquiet, lay
Smoking in the sobbing rain
While lines of paint and memories
Rolled red and warm away.
 
 
* enchantment
 

Stupid, Lusty Love

Lovely Lust, Lusty Love. Lovely, Lusty Love
Where can I escape you or shake you? See?
You drip from the clouds and the sky above
Pure and good, intense and bright: You irk me.
 
Sex and gin, lies and lights, oh, such a bore.
Close my eyes to the beat-beat crush of boys.
They are hungry, handsome animals. Roar
With loose cannons of impulse, kiss-kiss noise.
 
Love, I'm tired of pining and crying
For you. Cruel, scrapping, holy, agleam
I cannot grasp you: perfect hand, gold ring,
Stupid, bothering, a cultural dream.
 
 
Lovely Lust, Lusty Love. Lovely, Lusty Love
Bleating, fleeting crow perched, poised like a dove.
 

Brielyn M. Flones