In the end / the dead parade:

Harnessed one behind the other like a string

of perch & in his book the bat-winged scribbler enters

their names / to be or not / honored by the host . . . & those left to rot

are devoured by the beasts Goya has set upon them & one owl he’s kept

for himself as monitor & a hawk to mock the angels that will or will not

arrive in heaven . . . & the monster dog he’s freed to regurgitate what

has become of the lives that were & are no longer . . .

They’ve tied your hands & covered your eyes so you cannot see those who raise the rifles, or him who ordered your death & hides in his bunker his cock being sucked by your wife or maybe your daughter too.

Skirt stained with shit & blood of the fallen & the seeping earth / she keeps the cannon fire lit turns night to day. ‘Que Valor!’ calls Goya.

On his knees the lone man begs to be led away. His wide white eyes stare into a sky all mottled & black. He knows the future holds no salvation in the swirl of gas & scarlet rain.

Hola! Old friend . . .You, whose vision I’ve chased for years . . . As one from the plains who bears witness with his hands & blood in his throat . . . who speaks of the evil that men do & of the caller who knocks at every door . . .

Each day the donkey bears its burden of greed but here in Goya’s ‘night of the soul’

the corrupt haul each other on their backs & hurl their spears & pierce their own plump cocoons &

the dead will carry the dead / here where his monsters gorge on the torsos of kids & his priests walk a tightrope between their lies &

elegant women tease & flirt & are wrenched from their mother’s tit & here a raging stallion tears her flesh &

she’ll wear a mask to hide her scars & the hag will follow & sweep her up on a broom & sail over night &

here she’ll feed on dragon’s blood & dung & prefers a goat to a man & have him mount & . . . & here

the war tears out the country’s throat & mutilates & castrates & ties the bleeding parts to a tree . . . & here

a women who plucks the teeth of the dead & dogs that gnaw the guts in the pit & here the headless corpses rot …

& Francisco de Goya will not be satisfied – here . . . & neither will we turn away . . . escape

the gapping & the gawking mouths . . . the grisly . . . hush.