I recall writing this while reading a now-forgotten biography of Lorca in a Chapters store in Victoria, BC.
Lament for Lorca
Fuck Dali, who was born dead—
his heart more bent than his clock—
how long can one man’s death rattle go on?
Ah, he’s finally where he deserves to be—
hung on the walls of boredom, canvasses windless and flat.
You know, Dali carved off a piece of Lorca everyday,
spent years chewing on him….
The two of them raising dust all over Spain—
one dead from birth, the other born into death—
souring the black milk of prefabricated art.
They sailed garden paths like barnacled skeletons of promise,
fucked on the peseta’s thin edge
and between tight grains of wood,
lost their voices in the sand of eyelashes,
and finally fell into schools, staining
children orange with the rust of their laughter
—Dali, the sly dog, pissing inkwells
beyond Lorca’s reach.