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AFTER GOYA

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.

*

The Disasters of War – 1810-20

(EXCERPTS)

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.

 *

Spitting blood but still with his knife he rushes the guns & gunners oblige with bayonets & shot as they’ve done to the dead & dying

scattered below & beyond.

*

& now . . . The Women roil in rage w/thrust of sword or pike or the heaving of stone – they joust & claw & bite, gouge

eyes from the skulls of the fallen.

*

“Strange Fruit” this floppy body / Lady Day called it. & here, in Goya’s landscape, it’s amusement for a soldier who stops to admire the work of compatriots / right to those pants / dangling ‘round his shitstained shoes.

*

In the end the victors take their time: First, the challenger is slaughtered & stripped – no dignity in death here – he’s then . . . dismantled: head, legs, arms, testicles & cock; trophies strung from bush to branch.

*

Aftermath

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 . . .

***